


Double-0 Omens

by Supergeek21



Series: Double-0 Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action Movie Spoof, Action/Adventure, Angels Can Visit Dreams, Awake the Snake (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), But It's Separate, Canon Compliant, Crowley Just Wants To Be Loved (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Wants to be James Bond, Dream Invasion, Dream Sequence, First Kiss, Getting Together, Human AU (Sort of), Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Inspired By Tumblr, James Bond AU, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Author Watches too Many Action Movies, There Will Be a Smutty Bonus Chapter, accidental love confession, crowley is a dork, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26149720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supergeek21/pseuds/Supergeek21
Summary: After being told by Aziraphale he'd see him "when all this is over" Crowley starts his lockdown nap early. But what do demons dream about when they take a multi-month nap? Being Britain's greatest secret agent on a mission to save the world and rescue his best friend of course! And if that best friend also happens to be his love interest? Well, what Aziraphale doesn't know can't hurt him, right?ORThe dream sequence James Bond AU that nobody asked for but everyone encouraged me to write anyway.This story is mostly complete and I plan to update on Tuesdays and Fridays.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Double-0 Omens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968910
Comments: 547
Kudos: 178
Collections: Week 49: James Bond





	1. "To the World" is Not Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my first multi-chapter fic. I've been working on this since May when the Lockdown video gave me the inspiration to finally run with the idea I saw months ago on an Instagram meme. Said meme can be found [Here](https://images.app.goo.gl/EgEAMjBABFvgCmqf7)
> 
> Before we Begin I would love to give lots of love and thanks to my excellent Beta Reader and Brit-Picker [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) who volunteered to read this monster sight unseen. 
> 
> Also to all those in the Archive of Our Own Writers and Readers, the Good Omens Fans-The Ineffables, and the Ineffable Husbands-Fanfictions Readers and Writer-AO3 groups on Facebook thank you for all your feedback and support as I've been working on this. I hope you all enjoy.

** May 1, 2020: London **

"I'll see you when all this is over," Aziraphale's voice said softly over the phone.

"Right," Crowley sighed. "I'm setting the alarm clock for July... Good night Angel." Crowley sighed again as he ended the call. "Well, that was a thing," he grumbled.

He had meant what he had said. He had had every intention of trying to find something to do before turning in for a few months until Aziraphale called, but now he wasn't sure he even had the energy for that.

"Stupid angel and his rules," the demon muttered as he picked up his phone again. He briefly considered ringing his best friend back and teleporting himself over to the shop through the phone line, but what was the point?

_'Absolutely out of the question,'_ Aziraphale's voice echoed in his head.

Had he imagined it or had the angel sounded a bit disappointed? It didn't matter. Sure they'd been spending more time than together than ever since the end of the world didn't happen,[1] but it wasn't like much had really changed.

Yes, they weren't constantly looking over their shoulders anymore and they didn't have to pretend they weren't friends if anyone addressed them as such now, but when it was just the two of them almost everything had remained the same. With the exception of a few more friendly touches on the arm or hand peppered into their interactions, and a handful of hugs[2] nothing had changed in Aziraphale's attitude towards him. At least not as he may have hoped it would.

_Well it's not like you've exactly advertised you're looking for more_ , an annoying voice he thought had a tone a bit like Anathema Device scolded him from the back of his mind. Crowley suspected the witch was onto his feeling for the angel, but if she was she hadn't said anything and he'd be blessed if he was going to broach the subject by calling her out on her knowing little smirks.[3]

"I said I'd slither over to the bookshop and WATCH HIM EAT CAKE!" he shouted out loud to the voice in his mind. "How much blunter to I have to be for Satan's sake?!"

It wasn't like Aziraphale needed to put it together that he was madly in love with him, but it would be nice if he at least realized the demon missed his company, just as it would be nice to think maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale missed him too. He thought that might be what was coming when he saw the bookshop number on his caller ID, but no. The angel was apparently perfectly happy locked down by himself with his books and baking.

Crowley huffed. "Fine! If he doesn't need me, I don't need him. No point making m'self look desperate and pathetic."

Putting the phone down and resolving himself to start his nap early Crowley sauntered through his flat to his plant room to give them all one last watering and scolding before turning in.

"I swear if any of you even think about going wilty or brown while I'm asleep there will be HELL to pay!" he snarled, fixed them with a withering glare until they were all trembling, then slunk out of the room, snapping himself into his black, silk pajamas as he went. 

\---------------------------------------------

Aziraphale sighed as hung up the old rotary phone.

_Oh dear, he sounded so disappointed_ , he thought. _I hope I wasn't too adamant in my refusal._

For centuries Crowley and Aziraphale had played the same game of cat and mouse, always dancing around one another and being careful to not appear too eager to spend time together. It had been the key to their success with the Arrangement for a thousand years and while there was technically no need to keep up the charade any longer, well, old habits die hard, especially where breaking the rule was concerned.

"You're still an angel," Aziraphale told himself, tapping his fingers nervously on the desk. "You can't just go flouting the rules and setting a bad example willy-nilly... That's his job." _And Lord knows I tried to make that clear,_ his subconscious provided unhelpfully.

Aziraphale was sure Crowley had understood him. At least he hoped he had. Of course he couldn't just tell him to come over. That's not how this was done! Crowley did the tempting, Aziraphale refused, then Crowley would rephrase the offer so it was clearly to Aziraphale's benefit to accept, and then he would relent. THAT was how the game was played. But Crowley had sounded so disappointed...

"I'm sure he'll come around," the angel told himself decidedly, finally relinquishing his grip on the phone receiver in its cradle and stepping away from the desk to fix himself a cup of cocoa. "Besides, he said he's not going to sleep for another two days. If I don't hear anything by then, I suppose there's no rule saying I can't call him back to say goodnight before he turns in."

Satisfied with his own circuitous logic for the time being Aziraphale settled down into his favorite arm chair with his mug and tried not to think about whispering goodnight to the demon who had given it to him, and what it might be like to do so while running his fingers through soft locks of flame red hair.

\---------------------------------------------

 **GOD VO:** Although it is a biological fact that angels and demons have no need to sleep, it doesn't mean they can't enjoy it. The demon Crowley considers himself to be an expert sleeper, the way his best friend, the angel Aziraphale, considers himself an expert on fine dining (another indulgence which, strictly speaking neither angels nor demons have any need for). This is partially because, unlike most demons, Crowley possesses an outstanding imagination which allows him to experience incredibly vivid dreams when sleeping hard enough. Approximately two hours after tucking himself in and setting his alarm clock for 10 a.m. on July the First, he was off to dreamland.

* * *

[1] Unless you counted the time they had spent together as Nanny and Brother Francis looking after Warlock, but Crowley wasn't entirely sure he did, that was still work-related.

[2] Exactly six hugs, which Crowley absolutely HAD NOT been reliving in his brain the last few weeks in isolation.

[3] That was if he ever got to see her again, which, at the rate Pestilence's triumphant return from retirement was going, he was starting to question.


	2. The Name's Crowley, Anthony Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the dreams of Anthony J. Crowley, or as he's also known, Agent Double-Six Six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go with the actual James Bond portion of the story! This part makes up most the fic and is incredibly Crowley-centric so we will see Aziraphale again, but not for a while. A couple of notes on my dream world.  
> -I imagine that Crowley dreams like he's in a movie or play because he expects that's what dreams are like. He has an elaborate backstory built for his (human) character in the dream, and footnotes in the dream sequence typically reference things that don't happen in the story directly, but Crowley subconsciously knows to be true or happening "off-camera" in this dream-reality.  
> -Dreams are weird and Crowley is a 6,000 year old cinephile so if things things occasionally feel too convenient or like the timeline is a bit muddy, that's my excuse. 
> 
> Once again thank you to [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for offering to be my lovely Beta and Brit-picker on this story.
> 
> Sorry this post is later than expected, it’s been a long day.

The sun was hot on his skin as Crowley stretched his long limbs out on the pool chair, relishing the heat beating down on his bare chest as he listened to the sounds of the nearby sea and the laughter of some tourists in the hotel pool behind him. Nobody at the resort may ever know it, but his recent activities had been integral in preserving life as they all knew it. He didn't mind not getting credit, but he had earned a holiday. 

_All I need is now is someone to spend it with,_ he thought as he took a drink from his cold glass of scotch. He casually eyed an attractive pair of holiday-makers passing by in their bathing suits from behind his dark sunglasses and, for half a second, he considered turning on his old charms, but his heart wasn't really in it. He knew who he really wanted to be here with. That was out of the question though.

Crowley sighed and threw back the rest of his drink before he went back down that rabbit hole yet again. He was in paradise; he wasn't going to let himself get depressed.

He rearranged himself on the chair and prepared to resume his basking when the waiter who had brought him his drink spoke from behind him.

"Monsieur Crowley?" the young man said nervously.

Crowley nodded.

"A call for you came in at the front desk."

Crowley opened his eyes and saw the waiter had a portable phone from a landline on his tray.

"Tell them I'm not available," he said with a shrug.

"She said it was urgent, Monsieur. She said she's 'under pressure' and you would know what that means."

Crowley groaned and held out his hand for the phone. Duty called. He waited a moment for the waiter to retreat then put the receiver to his ear.

"Crowley speaking," he said casually.

"Double-six Six where have you been?!" Anathema Device's angry voice rang in his ear. "We were expecting you to report in three days ago!"

"Didn't think you'd miss me so soon," he drawled.

"Something's happened Crowley," Anathema replied, clearly in no mood for his joking. "We need you back in London. We've booked you a seat on the next flight out of Nice. It leaves in four hours and you had better be on it."

"Alright A, I understand," he said defensively, starting to become a bit alarmed. "It's not like it's the end of the world, right?"

"We'll talk when you get back," she said curtly before hanging up the phone.

"Damn!" Crowley snapped as the line went dead. He signaled for the waiter to pay his bill and return the phone. _So much for a holiday._

\---------------------------------------------

Crowley had a bad feeling about this. It had started in the taxi ride to the airport and only grown worse through his flight. _You're a spy for Somebody's sake!"_ he chided himself. _It's just another job._ _Another day, another mission, she just didn't want to give details on a public phone line._

He had almost convinced himself all was well and that his boss was just miffed with him for going temporarily AWOL by the time he sauntered into MI6 headquarters.

"Hello Ms. Tracy," he greeted Anathema's secretary with his usual swagger. The eccentric middle-aged woman was a shameless flirt and Crowley could never resist indulging in her appreciative glances, even though he knew both their interests lay elsewhere.

Today though he barely got a smile in return, confirming his suspicions that something was indeed spectacularly wrong.

"She's been expecting you Dearie," she said simply before pushing her intercom to announce his arrival.

"Double-six Six is here," she reported.

"Send him in," the answer came immediately, emotionless as he'd ever heard it.

The door swung open and Crowley entered, trying to keep up his usual bravado as he pondered if he was facing professional rage for insubordination or something far more dire.

Anathema sat cool as a cucumber at her desk, her long dark hair pulled back in a bun and a slight frown on her face.

"Sit down Crowley," Anathema ordered. The agent grimaced as he did as he was told.

"Look A, if this is about not reporting back in--"

"I don't give a damn about your unscheduled holiday Double-six Six," she snapped, eyes flashing behind her thick glasses. "What I care about is you not answering your mobile when we've got an emergency on our hands!"

"Emergency?" Crowley asked. "What emergency? I just stopped critical intelligence from falling to a terrorist. How is the world coming apart again already?"

"It's been coming apart for a while," Anathema said. "While you were out on assignment A.G.N.E.S. flagged some unusual activity," she explained.

Crowley's eyes widened a fraction behind his shades, A.G.N.E.S. was a relic of a surveillance computer updated so many times in the last half century that nobody at MI6 was even sure how many algorithms it was running to gather its intelligence and it could go for weeks or months without producing a single lead. More than one agent had suggested scrapping the ancient machine in the past decade, but Anathema wouldn't stand for it. The data may be sparse and cryptic, but when A.G.N.E.S. raised an alert it always meant something important was afoot. It was just a matter of figuring out what it was.

"A.G.N.E.S. picked up communications from a former Soviet agent to an apparent connection here in London. I believe you're familiar with Beatrice Zlaranova," Anathema said, handing over a file to Crowley.

"Beelzebub?" Crowley asked with a scowl. "She went off the grid over ten years ago. What is she up to now?"

Zlaranova, better known by her codename Beelzebub or 'The Prince of Hell' amongst her underworld contacts, had been a high-ranking member of the KGB before the fall of the Soviet Union. In the final days of the Cold War she had attempted, along with a few others, to stir up enough resentment to go down swinging and start an actual war, but the operation had been foiled and Beelzebub had been lucky to get out of the Kremlin alive. Several of her associates were less fortunate.

Crowley had been one of the agents on the team that uncovered the plot and had for several years worked to uncover Beelzebub's whereabouts. While he had tracked down a number of the connections she had made in organized crime, she had always remained one step ahead of America and Britain's best agents.

"From the looks of her messages we think whatever she's up to it involves black market weapons," Anathema answered. "High end ones. As far as we can tell they're so high end that she can't possibly be working alone. Our operations have frozen her assets so effectively I doubt she could set something this big in motion on her own."

"So she's got a backer," Crowley finished the thought for her.

"Exactly," Anathema said with a nod. "The question is who. A.G.N.E.S. couldn't find more communications besides the one contact, and we know he's not high level, so we sent out an agent to look into it."

"Great, so why do you need me?" Crowley asked.

Anathema and Tracy exchanged a nervous glance, the later fidgeting nervously with the edge of her blonde bob.

"Our man managed to track Beelzebub's money to New York City," Anathema said, picking up the briefing. "But three days after his arrival he failed to report in with his C.I.A. contact."

"Shit," Crowley breathed. "When was the last contact?"

"Day before yesterday," Tracy said, clearly upset with her own answer.

"That's why we were trying so hard to reach you," Anathema said pointedly.

"Obviously," Crowley spat. "But if this is so urgent why wait for me? Tell me you've got someone else on this!"

"Adam Young is in New York now trying to follow our leads but we need you. You're the best man for the job."

Crowley was about to protest that other agents who'd dealt with Beelzebub were still in the service and it might not have been worth waiting for him when Anathema's next sentence knocked the wind out of his sails.

"You know Agent Eastgate and his methods better than anyone else we've got, if anyone is going to find what happened to him and what he was onto, it's you."

Crowley's blood went cold in his veins. _Aziraphale!_

His shock must have been evident on his face.

"I know you two are old friends," Anathema said. "That's why I knew you'd want to be let in on this operation."

"When can you get me to New York?" Crowley interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely loved getting your feedback on this fic so far! Kudos and Comments make my day, so please feel free to leave them here or you can message me on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921)! I'd love to hear from you.


	3. The Demon Who Loved Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> En Route to New York Double-Six Six reviews his assignment and reflects on his last mission with Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy weekend everybody! Thank you all so much for the kind feedback you've given on this story already. Today we're finally getting some spy action and a glimpse into just how detailed Crowley's fictional dream background is. 
> 
> Also, if you were wondering: Yes, every chapter title is going to be a reference to a Bond movie/book/song. lol!

_'I know you two are old friends,'_ Crowley heard Anathema say again as he sipped his drink and leaned back in his first-class sleeper seat. _That's a simple way to put it._

He cringed. Were they friends? That was certainly one word for it... at least for what they'd been at one point.

From the first time he saw Aziraphale at headquarters he'd felt a certain draw towards him. He was different. While Crowley fit the bill of most MI6 recruits-- quick on his feet, cocky, just smart enough to not get killed, and no close family ties[1]\-- Aziraphale did not. He didn't seem to have the mental scars of most field agents and he was smart as a whip. He was soft, and seemed hesitant to fight, more suited to counter-intelligence desk work and analytics than hand-to-hand combat. Of course, Crowley had been stunned at how wrong that impression was the first time they ended up in a scrape together and his stuffy friend had got his hands on a blade.

Crowley would not be alive if not for Aziraphale Eastgate's actions that day, and he was determined to pay that debt back. He wasn't sure when his desire to keep his friend safe had morphed into attraction, or if it had been there from the start, but he'd botched it all nearly two years ago…

\---------------------------------------------

Their mission had put them at a party at the Spanish Villa of a politician suspected of selling military technology to the Chinese government.

All they had to do was get the proof from the man's office. It should have been easy.

Crowley was running interference and keeping watch while Aziraphale infiltrated the office. It was working splendidly: Crowley used his silver tongue to charm anyone who came too close, luring them away from the corridor and over to the bar, once even acting idiotically enough to get a security guard to escort him away from his partner's work.

They were nearing the finish line when things went awry.

Aziraphale had the evidence on his phone and on a memory chip cleverly hidden in his pocket watch, when their host (their mark) had taken an unusual interest in him as he skirted along the edge of the dance floor.

Crowley had watched in panic as Lucifer Morningstar put an arm around his friend's shoulders and dragged him onto the dance floor. They didn't have time for this! They had a rendezvous to make and one wrong move could blow their cover. One too many questions and Lucifer might realize he didn't know who this party guest was or why he was here. 

Crowley did the first thing he could think of to extricate Aziraphale from the situation. Downing his glass of champagne, he strode across the dance floor and tapped Morningstar on the shoulder.

"Excuse me m' Lord, wonderful party, thrilled to be here," Crowley said, grabbing his host's hand to shake. "Just one problem, Old Boy, you seem to be dancing with my date." He inserted himself between Lucifer and Aziraphale.

"Oh," Morningstar scoffed, looking shocked that the redhead had the audacity to interrupt him. "And who might you be?"

"Crowley, Anthony Crowley," he replied coolly, handing the other man his empty glass. "Now if you'll excuse us..." he grabbed Aziraphale's free hand in his and literally waltzed him away onto the dance floor.

"Crowley!" the other spy hissed at him. "What on Earth do you think you're doing?"

"Just follow my lead," Crowley answered with a sly grin, spinning his partner and pulling him closer.

"I had it under control," Aziraphale replied, a slight flash of embarrassment creeping up his face. 

"I'm sure you did but I'm playing it safe. Now quit arguing or you'll draw attention to us," Crowley hissed back, still unable to hide his self-satisfied smile with the champagne bubbles still coursing through his veins.

Before Aziraphale could further protest, the music changed tempo and Crowley pulled him into a different stance, tangoing towards the exit. Crowley hadn't lost sight of their objective, but he was enjoying himself; especially now that Aziraphale seemed to have warmed to his act.

Crowley was not what anyone would call a great dancer, but his lithe form and loose hips lent themselves well to the tango.

Aziraphale, whether playing his part or actually enjoying the music, had a small smile on his lips and Crowley couldn't help a glimmer of hope flickering somewhere in the heart he had long ago tried to shut off.

In the corner of his eye Crowley saw Morningstar approach a security guard. He was eyeing them suspiciously. _Time to get out_ , he thought, but before he did, he was going to make one more impression. As the music reached a crescendo he caught Aziraphale's eye. With a look he hoped said 'trust me,' he dipped his companion back and planted a kiss firmly on his lips.

Crowley felt Aziraphale go rigid in his arms. Though Crowley wouldn't say the kiss was reciprocated, Aziraphale did part his lips slightly not fully rejecting it. A woman off to their right wolf-whistled and Crowley pulled his partner out of the dip just as a security officer started towards them.

"Time to go then Darling," he said somewhat breathlessly.

"Absolutely," the blond replied.

They began speed walking towards the door, then all but bolted towards the car park upon clearing the entrance hall.

By the time the pair reached the Bentley at least two armed guards had followed them out.

Crowley pressed the trigger on his designer watch that unlocked and started the engine of the heavily modified vintage vehicle. "Get in Angel!" he shouted as he threw himself into the driver's seat, barely noticing he had allowed himself to use his private endearment for the person who'd once saved his life, his personal guardian angel, aloud.

If Aziraphale noticed, he didn't show it, shooting Crowley little more than a curious glance as he slid into the passenger seat.

The door wasn't even fully closed behind him when Crowley threw the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking space.

Soon the car was barreling down the winding country road at 90 miles per hour. Crowley had vaguely noted the start of a smaller engine behind him as they had smashed through the estate's guard station gate but was confident he had left any pursuing vehicles in the dust.

"Nothing like making an exit with style, eh Aziraphale?" he asked with a manic chuckle, adrenaline pounding through his veins.

In the seat next to him Aziraphale looked shaken.[2] Crowley’s driving had earned him numerous reprimands for damaged equipment, a permanent designation as the getaway driver on all missions, and the moniker of 'Speed Demon' from several coworkers, including Aziraphale. Crowley relished it.

"That was too close," Aziraphale gasped, clutching his chest and patting down his front to make certain he still had the phone and pocket watch.

"Agreed," Crowley said. "Guess we know better now, next time we have to steal from a bisexual playboy you can't look so good," Crowley said with a smirk.

He spared a glance from the road to Aziraphale, but his partner was not returning the smile.

"I had it under control," he spat.

"I was just trying to help."

"Why did you kiss me?" Aziraphale demanded before Crowley could continue.

"Ngk... It seemed like a good idea in the moment," Crowley sputtered, glad that his sunglasses were covering his eyes, despite the darkness.[3]

Aziraphale didn't answer right away.

"Did I cross a line?" Crowley asked, turning a tight corner.

Before the blond could answer Crowley was blinded by a single glaring headlamp in the road ahead of them as a motorcycle cut out of the woods to their right. Before Crowley could react, the driver opened fire on the car.

The windscreen shattered and Crowley cranked the wheel. The car skidded to a halt, crashing into the motorcycle. A second bike followed it out of the woods and also sprayed bullets at the damaged Bentley.

"Shit!" Crowley swore, diving below the dashboard and reaching for his gun. "Tenacious bastards! Cover me Aziraphale," Cowley shouted. He pushed a button on the dashboard to activate a set of blinding strobe lights from the car's headlamps and swung back up to spot his attackers. Gunfire was exchanged and the rider of the first bike, already injured from the collision with the Bentley, went down.

The second rider fired from Crowley's left, a bullet grazing his shoulder and sending a searing burn down his arm. Crowley whipped around to return fire.

"For Somebody's sake Aziraphale, shoot him!"

Even as the words left his mouth Crowley felt his blood run cold. Aziraphale was slumped in his seat, a blood stain growing on his white tuxedo jacket.

"Fuck! Fuck!" Crowley shouted, throwing himself over his friend as the biker fired again. Pressed against his partner, Crowley could feel Aziraphale's heartbeat under him; faint, but still present. He was in shock.

"Hang on Angel," Crowley muttered, pushing up once more to blast the now approaching biker straight in the chest. They collapsed to the road and Crowley turned his full attention to Aziraphale.

The bullet had struck him in the shoulder, just under his right collar bone. It could have been worse, but Crowley knew he had to act fast.

"Come on Aziraphale," Crowley panted. "You can't do this. I still owe you one! So you're just gonna have to die some other day."

He continued softly talking as he reached into the glove box for first aid supplies, though whether it was to himself or his friend even Crowley couldn't have said.

Even by triage standards Crowley's work was rushed. He was none too careful ripping his friend's jacket and shirt aside and vaguely thought to himself as Aziraphale groaned that the blond would be scolding him for it if he were lucid.

Once the wound was exposed, Crowley quickly poured hand sanitizer over it and stuffed a ball of tissue over the bullet hole. He knew he had to get them out of there, Morningstar could have reinforcements coming, but he needed to secure the makeshift bandage and put pressure on the wound.

Thinking fast he pulled off his own silver necktie and tied it like a sling, as tightly as he could, around Aziraphale's torso. As Crowley pushed his friend back into his seat and re-buckled the seatbelt around him, he heard him grumble and saw his eyes flutter. They looked unfocused and washed out.

"It's okay, mate, you're gonna make it. I just gotta get us out of here," Crowley reassured him.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale gasped as the redhead threw the car into gear. "...too fast for me..." he said, his voice a faint whisper.

Crowley let out a dark chuckle despite himself. "You're going to criticize my driving even now?" he asked, but his partner had lost consciousness again.

After an incredibly distressed distress call to Tracy requesting emergency assistance, Crowley met the extraction team at the predetermined rendezvous point along with a crew of medics.

It wasn't until he was watching them stabilize Aziraphale and a doctor approached him with a first aid kit that he remembered the pain in his own arm and became aware again of the blood oozing from where the bullet had grazed him.

\---------------------------------------------

Back on the plane Crowley subconsciously grasped the spot on his left arm where he'd been hit that night. He had received multiple stitches and had a faint scar. Aziraphale had required surgery to remove the armor piercing bullet that had shattered the windscreen.

It had been two days before Crowley had been allowed to see Aziraphale, during which time he'd been debriefed on the mission.[4] When he saw his partner, the conversation was short.

"I suppose I should say thank you for your quick thinking," Aziraphale had said.

"Shut up," Crowley had retorted. "It was my fault."

"You mustn't blame yourself, Dear Boy," he said in that way of his that should have been condescending but instead came off as endearing. "We both got noticed."

There was an awkward pause as Crowley contemplated if he should just spill his heart to his only real friend, but Aziraphale spoke again before he could work up the nerve.

"I'm retiring from the field," the blond said suddenly.

"You wot?"

"I said I'm leaving field work," he replied. "Obviously, it will be a while before I'm physically fit for it again, and, well, maybe it would be for the best if I stuck with a desk job. Everyone's always said I'm better suited to that anyway."

Crowley didn't know how long he was quiet before he had simply replied "obviously. Whatever you want to do Aziraphale. At least we're square; I guess I'll see you around headquarters." He did not stay long after that.

A month later he did see Aziraphale again during a mission briefing.[5] It was the first of only a dozen or so such occasions, all of them pleasant-enough but short.

"Why the bloody Hell were you back out in the field Angel?" Crowley muttered to himself as he scrolled through the case file on the tablet Anathema had provided him.[6] Staring out of the screen at him were photos of Aziraphale and Beelzebub. An audio file was attached. He slipped on headphones to listen to the recording for the third time since takeoff.

Aziraphale's fussy voice rang in his head and he grimaced as he listened to his friend's last transmission. The small part of his brain that still reluctantly believed in God prayed it wasn't the last words he would ever hear from him.

"Agent Eastgate reporting for A," his voice said confidently. "Witch Hunt proceeding as planned. I've located Beelzebub's man in New York, identity confirmed as Mr. Hastur LaVista, and tailed him yesterday to the Ritz Carlton Hotel. The money man is staying there. His name is Gabriel Arkangel, and as we suspected he is American. I gave the name to Sergeant Shadwell at the CIA and he is running a background check. Our initial report shows he is some sort of investment banker. No records readily show where his money originally came from. It seems Arkangel is meeting with a weapons supplier next Monday in an undisclosed location at 3 p.m. I will attempt to intercept this meeting. Please follow up with any information on Gabriel Arkangel. I think the name may be an assumed identity. I'm going to sweep his room at the Ritz when he leaves for a business meeting tomorrow on Wall Street. Agent Young is tailing him. I will report to Shadwell when I return. End transmission."

_So that's it then,_ Crowley thought miserably. _Not much to go on really: a disgraced KGB officer tracking down potential weapons of mass destruction, and a rich American providing the cash from a suite at the Ritz._

He hoped Adam and Shadwell had tracked down more information by the time he arrived.

Reluctantly, he put the file aside, finished his drink and laid back to get whatever rest he could.

_Hang on Angel,_ he thought. _I'm coming._

* * *

[1] His mother had thrown him out at the first chance she had and neither of them had ever looked back.

[2] Sixty successful missions together and he still had not adapted to his partner's reckless driving.

[3] Crowley had adopted the sunglasses early in his espionage career. Despite his skill for the work, he had a natural disadvantage that life had cursed him with naturally golden hued eyes and elongated pupils. The snakelike combination was so rare a doctor had told him he was probably the only person alive with it. The condition made his eyes somewhat sensitive to bright light, but more importantly, instantly recognizable. The sunglasses allowed him to protect his eyes and his identity and through the years Q Branch had found a number of ways to use them to his advantage.

[4] He had selectively left out the part about the kiss while still taking full blame for drawing excess attention to them. He had hoped Aziraphale would do the same.

[5] Tracy had given him an extra-soft smile that day as he left the briefing room and offered him a cup of tea. She had not said anything, but Crowley had secretly wondered if Aziraphale had ever told her more about that night or if perhaps his voice on the phone during his call for emergency assistance had given away more of his feelings than he realized.

[6] It would self-destruct if need be when the right series of buttons were pressed, Crowley had never done it, but he'd always been tempted to try it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and Comments make my day, so please feel free to leave them here or you can message me on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921)! I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic please feel free to share it, and if by some miracle you feel compelled to create any "inspired by" Works, consider this blanket permission to do so! Just let me know and tag me. I'd love to see and share them. (I actually wish I could afford to do a commission for cover art for this, but that’s not on the table at the moment.)
> 
> Finally, as always, thank you to [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for beta-ing.


	4. On Anathema's Secret Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double-six Six lands in New York and suits up for his mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you enjoyed your weekends. I have been so overwhelmed by the sheer number of comments and kudos the last chapter got! Each and every one of them made me smile, so please keep them coming! :) 
> 
> For those of you who enjoyed seeing Tracy and Anathema, you'll now be seeing more of the Tadfield crew, which leads me to my next note: this chapter has one of those dream-timeline oddities I mentioned at the beginning of the story. Adam and the Them have been aged up for their roles here. I think Crowley wanted them involved but knew a bunch of 13-year-old's could not be running around as spies, so he aged them up in his imagination. I assume he's mostly just picturing them taller, but you can think of them as being 23-25 years old.

Crowley had barely cleared customs when he was intercepted.

"Mr. Crowley?' a voice inquired behind him.

He turned suspiciously then grinned when he recognized the person standing before him dressed as a chauffeur. Adam Young was exactly that, young. Fresh out of University he was the youngest agent to be accepted into the double-6 program (Agent Double-six Eight) since Crowley himself.

"I take it you're the driver the company sent?" he asked, playing along with the ridiculous charade. He knew he hadn't been followed but if Anathema found out he broke protocol with the fledgling agent she'd have his head.

"Yes Sir, I've been instructed to drop you off at the local office," Adam replied stiffly.

"By all means then, lead on," he said with a gracious wave of his arm.

Once settled in the black town car Crowley gave a short bark of a laugh and patted Adam on the shoulder. "Well done kid," he said. "What's the story? Any leads in the last few hours?"

"Not much," Adam admitted begrudgingly. "I've got a local contact with the FBI staking out the Ritz but there's been nothing suspicious. We've been trying to get a clean picture of our money man but he doesn't show his face much. When he does, he usually does a good job keeping his head down. Like he knows we're on to him."

"Well considering Aziraphale has gone missing, it might be smart to assume he does," Crowley noted.

"Right," Adam agreed somberly. "I still don't know how that went wrong. Arkangel never left my sight the whole time Mr. Eastgate was in his room."

"’m Sure it wasn't your fault," Crowley tried to reassure the boy. He didn't need both of them carrying around guilt.

"Anyway," Adam pressed on, "I'm meant to take you to our New York Station for a full briefing, plus Newt wants to see you. He took the liberty of having your car flown in the other day."

Adam wove expertly through the New York traffic, though at a slower pace than Crowley thought was strictly necessary, until they turned down a narrow alley alongside an industrial looking building.

Crowley glanced at the brick wall beside them and wondered where the doorway was hidden when Adam punched a series of buttons on the car's stereo and a dumpster in front of them slid aside, along with part of the wall to reveal a downward sloping tunnel.

Crowley snorted. "Always heard the New York office was a real hole in the wall," he quipped. Adam rolled his eyes with a smirk.

Crowley was soon met with blinding fluorescent light as the tunnel leveled out and opened up into a white-walled space that looked like a cross between a parking garage and a laboratory.

The room they stepped out of the car into could best be described as organized chaos. While everything was pristinely white, paper cluttered several tables, a computer screen was blinking alarmingly in the back of the room, and off to one side two agents appeared to be playing with a small black and white dog.

Crowley had just focused in on this last strange detail when the dog's eyes began to glow a frightening red.

"No! Down Boy!" one of the assistants, a young, dark skinned woman with unruly curls barely contained by her hair tie, shouted as her companion, a rumpled looking young man with scruffy brown hair whose clothes all looked in good need of pressing, dove to restrain the animal.

It was apparently too little too late as the dog promptly exploded, leaving the young man's face covered in soot and oil.

"Not again," Adam groaned, slumping his head down and walking towards the singed pair. The young woman was scowling at the smoldering remains of what Crowley now realized was a mechanical dog.

"It's not my fault!" the girl, who appeared to be about Adam's age snapped.

"Project Hellhound," a plummy male voice suddenly spoke up behind Crowley. "We just can't seem to work out all the bugs."

"Maybe try a flea dip," Crowley quipped, turning to face the pale, bespectacled man behind him.

"If only that would fix it," Newton Pulsifer, MI6's Quartermaster and chief engineer said with a frustrated sigh. "A surveillance drone dog seemed like a brilliant idea when Adam suggested it; unfortunately, it keeps doing THAT whenever we give it commands."

"Bad dog," Crowley said in the direction of the wreckage.

"Quite," Newt replied, extending a hand to shake. "Good to see you Double-six Six."

"Good to see you too Q."

"Well as long as Pepper and Brian are reviewing the Hellhound with Adam, I suppose I can go over your new equipment," Newt said, gesturing for Crowley to follow him to the other side of the lab where a third assistant, another skinny boy with glasses and sandy blond hair was sorting through a number of items on a long table.

"All set over here Wensley?" Newt asked the younger man.

"Yes Sir," Wensleydale replied. "Hello, Mr. Crowley."

Crowley realized as he replied that he had met Wensleydale before but would be damned if he knew the technician's first name.

"Alright Crowley, pay attention," Newt said in as authoritative a tone as his soft-spoken voice could muster. "A, warned me you're impatient to get going but we can't have you running in unprepared."

Crowley snorted. "Does she make you use her codename in bed too, or are you just using it now for my benefit?" he asked with an evil smirk. He'd known for over a year about his boss' relationship with the engineer (everyone did) but while most people had enough tact not to mention it, Crowley enjoyed making Newt nervous.

To his credit, Crowley thought Pulsifer took the jab fairly well, choking on his own tongue for only a moment while the agent continued to smirk and Wensleydale pretended not to hear.

"That's really none of your business Double-six Six," Newt said, a slight blush rising in his face. "Even if I had any idea what you were talking about."

"'Course not," Crowley said nonchalantly. "Just seems she'd be the bossy type is all..."

Newt ignored this last bit of snark and soldiered on. "Anyway," he said pointedly, "The sooner you're out of here the better. I understand you damaged your watch on your last mission?"

"You could say that," Crowley answered.[1]

"Yes, well here's the newest model," Newt said, passing him a new timepiece. It looked very much like the old one: black, shiny, and beautifully ostentatious with its enormous face and multiple dials, including one at the bottom that didn't tick and had the tiny engraved words 'too late' in place of a twelve.[2]

"As usual the last dial is a timer for your exploding devices," Newt explained quickly. "Hold this button for three seconds to start the countdown once it's set." Additionally, if you pull the knob on the left side a rotating serrated edge comes out of the bevel that should help you saw through most restraints."

"Nice touch," Crowley said as he fastened the watch to this slender wrist.

"Thank you," Newt said curtly. "On the note of the detonator, we also have this for you, he said, handing Crowley a pewter snake head, "New belt buckle. It's magnetic on the back. Slide it off the belt and push in the eyes to activate the explosive charge then set the watch timer."

Newt held his hand out, "Sunglasses," he demanded.

"What about them?"

"I've got an improved pair for you," he replied matter-of-factly, as Crowley reluctantly removed his shades and squinted in the bright light of the lab.

Newt handed him a second pair that to Q-Branch's great credit, did look nearly identical to the designer pair Crowley favored when not on assignment. "Try them on," he instructed.

As Crowley readjusted to the dimmer light Newt began a somewhat proud explanation.

"You'll notice on the left earpiece there is a small button, when you press it you'll activate the various sight modes in the lenses."

Crowley tried them and found his vision adjusting once again first to a green night-vision, then a strange red and black glow after a second press.

"The vision modes scroll from night vision to infrared, which lacks in depth perception but can see through most doors and walls," Newt informed him. "Pressing the button on the right side will capture and send what you're seeing to my department, there's a bone conduction headset in the frames and holding down the camera button for two seconds turns the microphone on and off."

"Very nice," Crowley said, legitimately impressed. "What if the battery dies though?"

"Not to worry," Newt said, obviously pleased with his own foresight. "They're solar powered, not to mention completely bullet-proof."

Crowley nodded, switching the glasses off to restore his normal sight. "Looks great," he said. "Can I see my girl now?"

"Not yet," Newt said. "I've got one more, small one for you.

"Wensley!" he called, flipping a key to his assistant. "Bring the car around."

As Wensleydale headed off towards the back of the lab, Newt held out a silver lighter and a pack of cigarettes to Crowley.

"No thanks. I'm trying to cut back," Crowley said.

"They're a gadget, Double-six Six," Newt said with a put-out huff. "I think you'll rather like this one. The cigarettes are short range listening and homing devices. Just twist the filter and you can listen in from your sunglasses or track them from the car's navigation system."

Crowley gave a short nod.

"The lighter works as a standard cigarette lighter, but it's got a little extra kick. If you flip it open and hold the notch on the bottom," Newt flicked the cap open to demonstrate and immediately the small flame exploded into a three-foot jet of fire.

Crowley jumped back but couldn't disguise the look of delight on his face. "Well that'll certainly spark conversations," he drawled.

"Just try not to burn any buildings down with it," Newt said, tossing the device to Crowley. "It's only got a couple good shots in it, so use them wisely."

"When have I ever misused your equipment?" he scoffed.

"I think it's easier to ask when you haven't," Newt retorted with a roll of his eyes.

"It's not my fault you like to give me things that explode," Crowley muttered to himself.

While Newt's inventions had gotten him out of many tight spots, even the engineer had to admit that even his non-self-destructing gadgets had a propensity to combust when hit the wrong way.[3]

Newt was about to reply to the remark, which had not been as quiet as the redhead had hoped, when the familiar purr of an antique engine interrupted their conversation and Wensleydale pulled up in Crowley's beloved Bentley.

Although the vehicle was MI6 property originally, Crowley had managed to persuade Q-Branch to grant him exclusive use of it. Despite constant need for repairs and modifications, the agency, perhaps convinced it was their best agent's lucky charm or perhaps blackmailed with intelligence their best agent had mysteriously uncovered about their personal lives, kept agreeing to fix it to new specifications and reissuing it to him. No other agent would have dared take it out on a job at this point. 

Crowley stepped forward and affectionately stroked the bonnet. He'd not needed the car on his last mission and he'd missed it.

"We've got her fixed up quite well Mr. Crowley," Wensleydale enthused as he stepped out of the driver's seat. "Changed out all the windows with new glass that should withstand a small explosion and we added those retractable machine guns in the front that you asked for."

"Fantastic!" Crowley purred, sliding into the seat.

"Yes, you activate them with the switch here and of course the high beams still have their strobe effect," Newt said, pointing at a new toggle on the dashboard. I told you about the cigarette tracker in the navigation system already, and of course your watch can still unlock and start it from 100 meters away. We've also reinforced the rims of the wheels so even if you have a blowout it can keep driving and when you pull this lever on the steering column towards yourself the exhaust system will put out an acrid smoke screen behind you."

"Very helpful," Crowley said. "Let's hope I don't need it this time."

"With you I always figure better safe than sorry," Newt said. "Maybe if you can lose your tail this time I won't have to rebuild this bloody thing again."

Crowley chuckled and stroked the steering wheel, "don't listen to him, Darling," he whispered to the car. "I'll always have you fixed."

Newt rolled his eyes and stalked away towards Adam and the mess of Project Hellhound.

* * *

[1] You could also say it had been fried beyond function when he'd used its highly polished surface to deflect a laser beam away from his throat, but damaged worked too.

[2] Newt had laughed when Crowley had suggested this tiny modification several models ago but had sportingly obliged the agent's request.

[3] Or the right one depending on your point of view. Crowley's personal favorite was still a mechanical, lock-picking pen of Aziraphale's which had combusted spectacularly when Crowley had used it to jam the gears of a machine meant to decapitate them when their captors left the room. He hadn’t intended for that one to blow up; he couldn’t say the same for several other devices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! Please feel free to follow or message me on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921)! I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic please feel free to share it, and if by some miracle you feel compelled to create any "inspired by" Works, you absolutely have permission to do so! Just let me know and tag me. I'd love to see and share them.
> 
> Finally, as always, thank you to [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for beta-ing.


	5. Violet Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Crowley goes undercover to meet with Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Hope you're all doing well. I was so happy to cross the 500 hit mark with the last chapter, so thank you all once again for your continued support! I am absolutely living for your kudos and comments, so please, don't be shy and keep up the conversation. :)

Crowley pulled up to the Ritz feeling tense again. While his conversations with Adam and Newt had briefly made him feel like this was another run of the mill assignment, his subsequent briefing with Sergeant Shadwell had put him right back on the razor's edge.

The gruff old Scottish agent who served MI6's liaison to the CIA had not had much new information to offer Crowley but had managed to set the redhead's teeth on edge with his flippant reference to Aziraphale as "that southern pansy."[1]

Leaving the Bentley with the valet, Crowley went to check in under the alias Shadwell had given him, James B. Smyth.[2]

In addition to the information for his accommodations, Shadwell had also provided Crowley with an update on Gabriel Arkangel's intended meet up the next day.

"Apparently our man's set up his meetin' at a high-end tailor's not far from the hotel. Not a lot of info on the place. Owner goes by Sable and we got reason ter believe 'e's mafia. Very exclusive clientele and more than one report from the FBI suggests shady dealin' happenin' there, but there's nothin' to tie the owner to it, an' the flash bastard won't say a word 'bout any o' his customers," he had reported. "Accordin' to Eastgate's notes the buyer is meeting a representative of the arms dealer and Beelzebub's man said there was a code they had to exchange."

Shadwell had then handed Crowley a book that looked like a hotel room bible which he was surprised to find was actually a logbook.

"Young found that in his room," Shadwell scoffed. "Apparently the Southern Pansy couldn't remember everything and risked writin' it down."

"Lucky for us," Crowley mused as he scanned the pages of notes written in Aziraphale's ridiculously artistic penmanship.

"Aye," Shadwell said begrudgingly. "Anyway, we searched his room after he wen' missin'." The CIA agent had then produced a tartan suitcase from under his desk and passed it to Crowley. "Dunno what else in here might be MI6 issued or of use to ya, so figured you could take his effects. Didn't want anyone else trackin' down his room and gettin' their hands on it."

Crowley had felt sick as he took the bag. It had felt like an invasion of privacy and an admission of Aziraphale's death all in one and that same feeling washed over him now as he hoisted the bag along with his own suitcase out of the boot of the Bentley.

Looking at it again as it lay on the bed in his hotel room did not make the feeling any better.

_You have to look through it,_ he told himself. _There might be something important in there and he'd want you to know._

Begrudgingly he opened the bag but stopped his search through it almost immediately when the unmistakable smell of Aziraphale's cologne wafted out at him from the bundle of hastily packed clothes; he could do no more than pull out the faux bible and seal it back up.

While Crowley did question his friend's choice to leave a paper-trail he did respect the ingenuity of the disguise. Tucked in any hotel room drawer it would look exactly as if it belonged there and would likely escape the eye of anyone quickly ransacking a room. The first and last several pages of the book were even printed with the appropriate pages of Genesis and Revelations. _Clever Angel,_ he thought.

What struck him as less clever, and downright bizarre, were the notes about the meeting he was meant to intercept. Essentially Aziraphale had learned that Gabriel had never met anyone from the arms dealer's circle, that the arms dealer wanted their emissary to check out the American first, and that Beelzebub's man, Hastur, described in the notes as a scruffy underworld thug from London with white hair and a poor sense of personal hygiene, was told to give Gabriel the time while the money-man was to name the place.

Gabriel had apparently suggested the tailor shop and asked who his contact was to be. Here Crowley realized, as Aziraphale had, that they were in luck.

'They'll know you,' Hastur had reportedly told Gabriel.

Then had come the strange part. Whether he'd overheard it or managed to sneak a peek at a paper was unclear, but Crowley felt the information MUST be mistaken; to recognize his contact, Hastur had apparently told Gabriel the emissary would approach him and that he should exchange a strange string of banter with them.

"You've got to be joking," Crowley scoffed to the empty room as he read the lines he'd be expected to recite.

The plan, as Adam and Shadwell had filled him in, was for Crowley (previously Aziraphale) to pose as the arms dealer's liaison. Adam, with the help of Q Branch and some local police would create a diversion on the street outside and waylay anyone attempting to enter the shop before Crowley and Gabriel could leave.

"Find out what you can and set up a meeting for him with the dealer," he'd been instructed. "If we can spot the real contact we'll attempt to tail them," Adam had said.

It was simple but risky; Crowley's specialty.

He spent the rest of the evening poring over the rest of Aziraphale's notes and pointedly ignoring the tartan suitcase as he drained several tumblers of scotch.

\---------------------------------------------

The next morning Crowley dressed in his usual black dress shirt and tight trousers and donned his newly issued sunglasses and watch.

_'Thankfully your normal wardrobe looks right on brand for a criminal,'_ he heard Adam's joking words echo in his head. He slicked his hair back in the mirror and scowled. Adam was right: he looked much more the part for this than Aziraphale would have.

Gabriel's meeting at the tailor was at 3 p.m. At 2:30 he arrived outside the shop and glanced around. Across the street in a small cafe he saw Adam dressed in a police patrolman's uniform sipping a cup of coffee.

Everything was in place then. Training his face into a mask of nonchalance, he entered the shop. He had only just begun browsing through a rack of sample jackets while he surveyed the room when a tall, black man even more impossibly thin than Crowley himself, presumably Mr. Sable, slithered out of the back room.

"May I help you, Sir?" he purred.

Crowley hoped what Shadwell's team had told him about this person was true when he answered.

"Not at the moment," he said casually. "Just browsing a bit. I'm waiting for a business acquaintance."

He gave the man a meaningful look through his sunglasses and it seemed he was understood.

"Very well, Sir," he replied with an unsavory flash of his notably sharp looking white teeth. "Let me know when you're ready."

Crowley wondered if patronizing the shop was the cost of doing business there. He had to admit the suits looked good. Maybe he could put off a fitting as stalling for time.

Ten minutes later Crowley was trying on a jacket[3] and a man who matched Adam’s description of Gabriel Arkangel strode in the front door. As Aziraphale had predicted, he was early.

Crowley glanced towards the newcomer as the tailor continued to take his measurements; he was tall, broadly built with a handsome face, dark hair, and incredibly striking violet eyes.

_N_ o _wonder he keeps his head down,_ Crowley thought. _He doesn't exactly blend in._

Making a motion like fixing a stray bit of hair, Crowley clicked his sunglasses into record mode. Gabriel eyed him carefully as if attempting to determine if this man was his contact or a complication that needed to be dealt with.

"I'll be with you in a minute," Sable said.

Arkangel began to thank the man when a deafening crash echoed from outside the shop. Crowley knew that was the signal that he was not about to be interrupted.[4]

Gabriel looked briefly towards the street and grimaced before looking back to Crowley who merely shrugged.

"That's a shame," the spy said callously.

"Quite," Gabriel replied, equally cold. "It'll have traffic snarled for hours."

"Doesn't everything do that in this city?" Crowley said sarcastically.

Arkangel gave a short bark of a laugh. "I suppose."

"Yes, well, nice weather we're having today anyway," Crowley said, working to catch the other man's eyes again. He needed a clear shot on camera for Shadwell's background check.

Recognizing his cue for the strange code, Gabriel stiffened slightly before replying. "Indeed. Though I heard it might rain."

Hoping one last time Aziraphale had gotten this next bit right Crowley shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "But it shouldn't be a problem unless it starts raining fish."

He knew his friend had been on the money when Gabriel didn't look at him like he had sprouted a second head, instead replying simply, "that's how you know the end is near, isn't it?"

Crowley gave a sly smile. "You're early Mr. Arkangel."

"Not as early as you," the American replied coolly.

"Wanted to see when you'd show up," Crowley answered.

As if sensing the delicate nature of the business that was taking place before him, likely from years of similar experience, Mr. Sable quietly excused himself muttering something about needing pins.

"So has my punctuality told you what your boss wants to know?" Arkangel asked. He was obviously playing it tough and Crowley surmised he found this whole procedure tedious.

"Some of it," Crowley said, refusing to let his tone venture from casual boredom, as if he too had better things to be doing. "At least we know you're reliable, but we need to protect our own business, and I understand you had a bit of a security breach last week. We don't want to be doing business with a partner who has people sniffing around their hotel suites."

A muscle in Gabriel's jaw twitched. "That issue has been taken care of," he said, his voice like steel. "I assure you your operation is at no risk."

"Is that so?" Crowley pressed, glad once again that his sunglasses could mask some of his own emotions. "Will you be needing any assistance with cleaning services then?" he asked against his better judgment. "My employer could put you in touch with a professional."

"That won't be necessary," Arkangel said. "If our other business is seen to correctly it'll be easy enough to get rid of another body."

"Blunt talk for broad daylight," Crowley said, his own surprise showing through his facade, as he pondered the meaning of Arkangel's words.

_Does this mean he's keeping Aziraphale alive somewhere?_ he thought, praying deep down that it did.

"Well this is a blunt operation," he said. "Don't tell me your lot is squeamish about facing death."

"Not at all," Crowley replied. "Just want to make sure you're not being sloppy."

"I assure you Mr. Sable has heard worse things from other clients," he said with his own shrug.

As if on cue the tailor returned from the back room with a box of pins and a garment bag for Gabriel. An ambulance siren was now sounding outside, and the muffled sounds of raised voices could be heard from the street. As Gabriel tried on the suit, Crowley made sure to get one more, good look at the man's face. Handsome as he may be, he didn't look familiar to any file photos Crowley had ever seen, but those eyes seemed like they ought to stand out to somebody.

Crowley slipped off the dummy jacket and handed it back to Sable, giving a few instructions for the new suit he doubted he would ever pick up but rather thought he would like to. _If I have to be undercover, I may as well do it with style,_ he thought.

"Well I think I have everything I need," the agent said as Gabriel stepped out of the fitting room. "Perhaps I'll see you again Mr. Arkangel. Maybe tomorrow night by the boat house in Central Park?"

"Sounds like a nice romantic spot," Gabriel scoffed.

"Well we won't be alone," Crowley said. "I have someone I think would like to meet you."

Gabriel nodded.

"See you tomorrow at nine," Crowley said, then added casually, "I think you may want to go out the back?"

"Probably a wise choice," Gabriel agreed.

The commotion on the street seemed to be getting louder.[5]

"Right this way," Sable said, indicating the door into the back room he had disappeared through earlier.

Crowley quietly thanked him before making his own retreat. 

* * *

[1] Crowley had never particularly cared for Sgt. "First Name Unknown" Shadwell. In the handful of times he'd worked with the man he'd provided the access Crowley needed to work in the States, however, he'd often found himself wondering how the heavily accented, often offensive Scotsman had earned such favor with the CIA. Officially the story was that as a civilian, he'd rescued an American ambassador's son from a cult before the actual agents on the case had made any progress and had been offered American citizenship and position at the agency as thanks. While most of that story checked out, many questions and gaps in the narrative including what the cult had kidnapped the boy for, what Shadwell's background was, and why some random nutter with a blunderbuss (allegedly) had been hunting a Satanist cult in the first place. Rumors abounded and Crowley had lost interest after a while.

[2] He wasn't sure what the 'B' stood for.

[3] Mafia or not the man had a gift for fashion.

[4] Outside the shop a man was lying in a heap on the ground, his bicycle tires spinning wildly and blood (of the fake variety) was spattered on both his shirt and the surrounding sidewalk along with the remains of an enormous plate-glass window which had been carried by two construction workers who were now ‘panicking.’ Adam was currently closing the site off with police tape while another officer took a statement from one of the workers (Wensleydale) while the other (Pepper) called an ambulance, which was to arrive shortly (driven by Newt). Brian was, meanwhile, convincingly playing the part of rolling on the ground in 'agony.'

[5] On the street outside a thin person with dark, oily hair had ridden up on a white motorcycle at exactly five minutes to three and attempted to enter the shop. They had bumped into a young policeman, causing him to spill his coffee down the biker's front. Adam had attempted to block the person from entering due to the broken glass and the ensuing shouting match had led to the biker being threatened with handcuffs and a cigarette being discreetly slid into their back pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! Please feel free to follow or message me on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921)! I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> So I'll be 100% honest, this is not my favorite chapter, it came from an early idea I had in the plotting phase to introduce Gabriel in a hat tip to the deleted bookshop opening/tailor shop scene from the show. Compared to ideas that came later, I know it’s not as much fun, but I kept it for simplicity, plus we all know Gabriel does “like the clothes." 
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic please by all means share it, and if by some miracle you feel compelled to create any "inspired by" Works, you absolutely have permission to do so! Just let me know and tag me. 
> 
> Last but not least thank you once again to [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for beta-ing.


	6. Double-Six Six in New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and the team prepare for their mission to intercept Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back every one! I'm geeking out a little posting this chapter since it's Chapter 6, I have Crowley's spy name Double-Six Six in the title, and this story surpassed 666 hits yesterday. (Though in true Crowley fashion I watched diligently for that mark, fell asleep and woke up to find it at 667 hits so I couldn’t screen shot it, lol) I had no idea how many hits this thing was going to get by this point, so I am super excited. 
> 
> Once again, thank you for your continued support for this story! I had a lot of fun and spent a lot of time writing it and it is so rewarding to see it pay off. Please keep the kudos and comments coming, they are like little shots of dopamine fighting off quarantine stress every time I see one come in. :)

Crowley was lying on the bed in his hotel room when there was a knock at his door.

He'd spent the last three hours since returning from his meeting drinking martinis[1] and poring over the events of the tailor shop, scouring them for more, useful information.

_Aziraphale is still alive_ , he told himself. _And whatever Beelzebub and this prick Gabriel are planning is going to happen near where he is and have a high body count._

The knock at the door broke his reverie and he cursed under his breath.

"Who's there?" he called somewhat harshly.

"Room service," Adam's voice answered. "Your champagne has arrived."

Crowley rolled his eyes. Sometimes his bosses were really too hung up on the code words.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," he called out.

"Nice job today kid," Crowley complimented the younger agent once the door shut behind them. "Don't think he suspected a thing."

"Good. I don't know if his goon did though," Adam said with a shrug.

"What goon?" Crowley asked, somewhat alarmed. Aziraphale's notes had never mentioned Arkangel having an accomplice.

"Some guy who drove him," Adam said. "Looked like a bodyguard, but I hadn't seen him when I tailed Arkangel before. He started to get out of the car when Gabriel did, but I think he got told to stay put. He seemed to be watching the place the whole time from outside the cafe."

"What did he look like?" Crowley asked.

"Shorter than Arkangel," Adam answered. "Stocky bald guy; looked pretty strong. I think he had a gold tooth."

Crowley cringed. That didn’t sound good. He wondered if this person had been the one to take Aziraphale out of the game.

"Okay. We'll keep an eye out for him," he noted. "Any sign of the arms dealer’s man?"

"I think so," Adam said. "Greasy haired person on a motorcycle, couldn't be certain if they were male or female. They made a big fuss trying to get in until I threatened an arrest. We slipped a tracker in their pocket, but we haven't picked any audio up. Just found the bike in a parking garage uptown."

"Damn!" Crowley snapped. "So, we don't know what they've reported or if anyone's on to us." He began to pace, drew in a deep breath and started thinking aloud. "For now, we have to assume they don't know I guess," he said. "We don't know who they work for. There could be a lot of channels to get through. It could take more than 24 hours, and that's if you tagged the right person."

"The other problem is that the bodyguard probably saw all of us outside the shop," Adam added. "We'll need another man to be your backup in the park tomorrow, so I'm not recognized."

"Right," Crowley huffed. "Probably should be American too. Too many Brits hanging around might draw suspicion, especially now that we have reason to believe they took Aziraphale alive."

"I worked with one of Shadwell's contacts before," Adam said. "I'll see if he can help..." Adam paused for a moment. "How do you know they took Aziraphale alive?"

Crowley stopped his pacing and sighed. "I played a hunch," he said, doing all he could to sound calm. "He implied they didn't have to get rid of a body yet. Sounded like they're keeping him around 'til the job is done."

"I suppose they might want to see what he knows," Adam mused. "Have you gone through the rest of his stuff to see what else might be in there?"

Crowley shook his head.

"I mean... I just got lucky with the Bible journal," Adam said gently. "I was literally grabbing everything I could and decided to flip through when it fell out the drawer. He always wears that angel's wings ring, I thought maybe he'd tuck a note in it..."

As Adam trailed off Crowley slowly slunk over to the closet and, without a word, hauled the suitcase out and onto the bed.

"You're right," he conceded. "We need to know everything he might have found... just... give me a hand, will you? He's my friend... it felt invasive."

Adam nodded and gave Crowley a knowing look, one that made Crowley feel as though the boy could see right through him, and he pushed his glasses further up his nose.

If Aziraphale had known anything else about the plot he apparently had not had the need or opportunity to write it down. Adam and Crowley emptied every pocket of every clothing item and flipped through the page of every book their compatriot had had in his room. When it had all been emptied out and accounted for, they searched the suitcase itself.

When they came to the last internal zipped pocket of the case, they found two items that seemed out of place; Crowley's pulse froze for a beat as he looked down at the silver necktie he hadn't seen in two years. It still had a faint stain of blood on it from where he'd used it to bandage Aziraphale's shoulder that ill-fated night in Spain.

Before he could allow himself to ponder on why his friend would have kept the thing, Adam broke his reverie.

"Do you suppose this could be important?" he asked.

He was holding up a glossy magazine folded over onto itself. From the look of it, it was some sort of society section and a quick glance at the cover confirmed it was the most recent edition of New York Magazine.

"Maybe," Crowley said with a shrug. "Could just as easily have been some light reading on the plane." Even as he said it though, Crowley knew it couldn't be right. He knew  
Aziraphale. His angel read The Times and classic literature. Occasionally he might pick up Time Magazine or some new, acclaimed historical fiction but never once had he seen him so much as glance at a society magazine. And it had been stored away with something that was either important to the angel or long forgotten in that pocket. This had to be something different.

"Let me see that," he said, grabbing the magazine from Adam and gently gripping the wrinkled tie in his fist.

The article the magazine had been folded to was an announcement about a charity gala being held at the Ritz. Skimming the details, Crowley noted that security at the hotel was about to get tight: two former presidents, one from each major party had joined forces to start a charitable foundation to fight hunger and the organization's inaugural event was being held at the Ritz with a guest list including power players from both political parties, Hollywood, Silicon Valley, and Wall Street, as well as a few dignitaries from Europe.

Crowley let out a low whistle. "It's interesting, but I don't know..." before he could finish his sentence, he noticed something in the crumpled bottom corner of the page. In Aziraphale's neat handwriting was jotted one sentence in quotation marks: 'Going to be quite the event.'

"I think we found something kid," Crowley said, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Take this to Newt," he said. "We may have some research to do."

\---------------------------------------------

The next night Crowley reviewed the plan one more time as he strapped on his ankle holster and slipped in his pistol.

After he entered the park, he would have a fair walk to the rendezvous point where Shadwell's man, a young American named Warlock Dowling, was already stationed as a passerby with the Hellhound. Once Crowley arrived, he was to engage Arkangel, get him to acknowledge what he wanted on camera, and give the signal. Crowley was to flick his lighter[2] as if he were signaling his "employer" at which point Warlock and three FBI agents were to move in. Adam and Wensleydale would be stationed nearby in a van disguised as park maintenance running communications for the op.

There had still been no update on the arms dealer's associate, so he had to assume everything was still going according to plan. As he ran his hands down to smooth fabric of his dark turtle-neck he mentally kicked himself for not getting close enough to Arkangel in the shop to slip a bug in his pocket, but he'd been explicitly warned not to take too many risks. They had a listening device in the hall outside Arkangel's room. If he'd had contact with Beelzebub since yesterday it hadn't been in the hours he was at the hotel.

Crowley tucked the lighter in his pocket and slipped on his sunglasses before heading out. He glanced at his watch. At this rate he should arrive just a few minutes after Gabriel, as was the plan.

It wasn't a long drive, and it might have taken just as long to walk by the time Crowley parked the car along Central Park West with miraculously little trouble.

This was the part of the mission he was unsure of. Even parked as conveniently as he was, courtesy of some strategically placed and easily moved orange cones, it was still a bit of a hike to his meeting point. If something were to go wrong, it would happen now.

Switching on his night vision and earpiece, Crowley tested his comms with Adam. "Serpent checking in," he said quietly. "Do you read me gardeners?"

"This is the garden team," Adam's voice crackled into his ear from the sunglasses. "We hear you loud and clear, Serpent."

"Good. What's our status?"

"Hellhound is in position and we have a visual. No sign of target yet but the guy from the tailor shop is here," Adam replied.

"Right," Crowley said, sliding his mobile into the glove box and finally stepping out of the car. "Probably doing the same thing he thinks I am. Tell one of the agents to be on standby to pose as the dealer if we need to, we'll have to hope Arkangel doesn't know any more than we do about what they look like."

"Affirmative," Wensleydale's voice cut in. "We'll tell Agent Smith he's on standby."

"Roger that," Crowley said, beginning his walk through the park. He didn't know who agent Smith actually was but he trusted Newt and Shadwell enough to not send someone who couldn't play the part.

From his earpiece Crowley heard Adam signal the ambush team. "The snake is in the grass, be on alert."

Crowley could just see the light from the boathouse when he heard the first rustle in the bushes. He turned to his right, towards the disturbance when he was tackled from the left.

He reacted fast enough to roll when he hit the ground, throwing his assailant off him. The world swam in a swirl of black and green as he looked for the source of the attack through his night vision glasses.

The man who'd hit him was shorter than Crowley but powerfully built. Between his dark skin and black trench coat he was hard to see in the darkness, except for the flash of his near-iridescent eyes in the distant light of the boathouse. He had pulled a knife and was now closing in.

Crowley lashed out with his legs and managed to catch the other man in the side before scrabbling backwards and pulling himself up. He reached for his gun and found it had slipped out of its holster in the struggle. Before he could locate it on the ground his attacker had caught his breath and rounded on him again.

Crowley swung a right hook that caught the other man in the jaw, then grasped for the knife as the stunned man swung blindly.

Crowley had gotten a sturdy grip on the attacker's wrist and was attempting to twist the blade away when a fist slammed him in the side from behind. Crowley wheezed as the air was knocked from his lungs and his grip loosened on the first assailant's arm.

Grimacing from the pain in his side, Crowley threw his arm back, driving his elbow into the ribs of the person who had snuck up behind him. The loud grunting behind him told Crowley the newcomer had stepped back, giving him another brief shot at the first man's knife.

He tightened his grip on the first man’s wrist and tugged, simultaneously slamming his knee upward into the man's solar plexus.

The attacker went down, and Crowley grabbed the knife, whirling to turn on the second man.

He looked older than the first, with stringy white hair that looked badly in need of grooming and dark, dead eyes. Something in the back of his mind reminded him this was Hastur, Beelzebub's right-hand man who Aziraphale had seen reporting to Gabriel. .

_Fuck!_

Crowley lunged at Hastur with the knife, causing the blond to lurch back. He seemed off-balance and Crowley saw his eyes scanning the ground.

_He must have dropped a weapon,_ Crowley realized, his thoughts running to his own gun lying somewhere in the grass. He pressed his advantage, charging the other man and slashing at his throat.

Hastur reacted just fast enough so the knife only grazed his shoulder, tearing his ratty raincoat but making little contact with his body.

Snarling, Crowley lunged again, this time tackling Hastur to the ground. Hastur grabbed the thinner man's arm, blocking another stab attempt and Crowley flung the knife into the darkness, away from both attackers in favor of raining blows into the other man's face until Hastur threw him off.

In his one second of freedom Crowley managed to activate the microphone on his glasses.

"Mayday! Mayday! They're onto us! Fall back!" he shouted before a heavy boot connected with the side of his face. He heard the sickening crack of his glasses shattering and the world was plunged into its normal darkness.

Crowley's head swam as he fell back into the grass. He hadn't expected the last blow, but as he rolled to his side to regain his feet, he felt his pounding heart skip. He was touching metal. _The gun!_

Still disorientated, he pushed himself upright, and leveled the gun at Hastur.

"Crowley?!" he swore he heard a worried voice shout from the darkness behind him as he pulled the trigger; a familiar voice.

"Angel?" he whispered. He turned his head just slightly towards the source of the sound.

It was all the distraction the first attacker needed to club him over the head with a fallen branch.

Crowley felt the world spin around him and he tasted blood in his mouth as he hit the ground beside Hastur.

There was a flash of light from the direction of the boathouse and he heard a deafening explosion before the world went black.

* * *

[1] Shaken, not stirred.

[2] The standard end, not the flame thrower, as Newt had “helpfully” reminded him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's a cliffhanger! Anybody have any ideas what just happened or what will happen next? Feel free to drop theories in the comments ;)
> 
> Thank you again for reading! Please follow or message me on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921)! I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic please, by all means, share it, and if by some miracle you feel compelled to create any "inspired by" Works, you absolutely have permission to do so! Just let me know and tag me. 
> 
> I'm running out of new creative ways to word this, but thanks as always [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for beta-ing.


	7. A View to a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did Crowley hear Aziraphale's voice in the park? The answer may surprise you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome back. Let me just say, I loved reading your reactions to last chapter's cliffhanger. You will now have some of your questions answered! (A tiny bit early today because I got too excited 😁)
> 
> While comments and kudos always make my day I do have one small request from my readers today. Monday is my birthday, I'm not really going to be able to celebrate it much this year, so it would be very appreciated as a little gift to hear from you or if you'd rec my story or give me a retweet/share on social media. Thank you all! I love you guys.

** May 3, 2020: Soho, London **

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea, glanced at his pocket watch for the fourth time in the last two hours, picked up the book he'd been attempting to read, read the same sentence over three times without comprehending it, then snapped the book shut with a frustrated sigh and looked at the antique clock on the wall. It read 2:37 p.m., which made sense since his pocket watch was miraculously synchronized with it at all times and the pocket watch had said 2:34 when he'd last glanced at it.

Aziraphale took another sip of tea and tried to tell himself he was not letting his gaze wander to the antique phone, which of course was a lie. His plan to call Crowley back had occupied most of his thoughts for the last two days, especially since he’d received that delivery from the International Express man yesterday.[1] Angels are not immune from the temptations of online impulse shopping, especially when quarantined for a month. A few days before his conversation with Crowley Aziraphale had succumbed to one such temptation and ordered himself a television so he could watch more of that delightful baking competition Crowley had introduced him to. This purchase, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the television-loving demon had been spending more time at the shop as of late but, nevertheless, it had made him miss his friend.[2]

_Is it too early to say goodnight?_ the angel wondered for the fifth time since he'd take a fresh angel food cake out of the oven that morning and painstakingly decorated it, obviously not thinking AT ALL about how a certain demon had always seemed partial to the desert.

He tried resolutely to think about something, anything, else for two whole minutes before decisively giving up. 

"Dash it all!" he finally exclaimed, making his way over to the phone. "He said two days! You don't know what time he would choose to go to sleep. It wouldn't do to miss him before he tucks in..."

Satisfied once again with his own unimpeachable logic, Aziraphale picked up the receiver and dialed his friend's number on the old rotary phone.

After three rings the angel's heart leapt, then promptly sank.

"This is Anthony J. Crowley; you know what to do. Do it with style," the familiar message of the answering machine drawled at him in Crowley's voice.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, not quite able to mask his disappointment. "Yes. Hello, Dear Boy. It's me again. So sorry to have missed you... I was just hoping to say goodnight before you settled in for your nap, but it appears you've turned in early... My fault I suppose. Anyway, I hope you enjoy your sleep... I suppose I'll see you soon. Um... Goodbye."

Aziraphale wasn't sure what he'd expected to happen when he spoke to Crowley again, but he knew he hadn't expected to feel an overwhelming sense of loss.

"It's your own fault," he snapped, setting down the phone a little more roughly than strictly intended. "If you weren't such a coward, he would be here right now having tea and cake instead of off in dreamland thinking you don't want to spend time with him."

Even as the angel slumped back into his armchair to sulk, his own words hit him.

_Dreamland,_ he thought again, the seeds of an idea starting to germinate in his mind. _I wonder._

As an angel, Aziraphale is capable of communicating with other beings in their sleep via dreams. In fact, as Heaven's primary Earth agent, he was partially responsible for writing the angelic handbook on the process when the archangels first devised it,[3] however, he hadn't done it in decades, and had never considered trying it with someone he actually knew.

"Out of the question," he scolded himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge the mere thought. "That would be a tremendous invasion of his privacy. Besides he's a demon, you don't even know if he is capable of dreaming."[4]

As he thought about it, Aziraphale was fairly certain he remembered Crowley complaining about the bothersome thought of a giant duck in his car, but they'd been drunk and he couldn't remember precisely if the duck had been living in the Bentley or stealing it, or furthermore if it had been a dream or something Beelzebub had threatened him with if he failed a job.[5] He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair for a moment, pondering the potential limits of his friend's demonic brain and how they measured up against said demon's prodigious imagination before once again shaking his head and deciding decisively that what the situation really called for was comfort food.

Half a batch of biscuits, a cup of cocoa, and quite a few glasses of wine later Aziraphale had completely assured himself that Crowley could in fact dream and that a dream visit would not cause himself or Crowley to explode, so he was now reconsidering his earlier decisiveness.

"I mean... he just sounded so sad," he lamented to a bust of Shakespeare. "You know that's not like him. And it's obviously my fault, otherwise he wouldn't have gone to bed early without trying to tempt me again, and you of all people know how tempting he can be," he added with a drunken, conspiratorial wink.[6]

Aziraphale sighed. "I would hate for him to be all alone sulking for months. Or what if he's so upset with me, he goes on for years again like after the damned holy water incident? I can't tolerate that! Not after how close we've been recently..."

The angel took another copious swig of wine and sighed yet again. He sat in silence for another moment and fidgeted nervously with his ring, unable to think of anything but Crowley moping about his large, stark flat or tossing around in an angry, fitful sleep.

"You know, I suppose there's really no harm in checking on him," he said hesitantly to the bust. "I mean, I can't go outside to visit, but there's nothing saying I can't just... pop over in his head to make sure he's alright. It's not like I haven't been, literally, in his head before. I mean... I was in his whole body, wasn't I?"

The bust stared silently back at the angel, as it was wont to do, but Aziraphale's mind was as good as made up anyway.

"Besides, if he doesn't dream there'll be no harm done. I'll just see where he is physically and pop right out. All tickety-boo."

Before he could talk himself out of his plan, Aziraphale had climbed the stairs to his small flat above the bookshop and removed his shoes to lie down on the bed.

While dream communication had been quite convenient for bodiless, heaven-based angels it was a bit more complicated for those already stationed on Earth, as dream travel required the partial projection of one's essence outside their body. Therefore, the simplest way to adequately relax and focus enough to achieve it without risking discorporation was to find somewhere private and put oneself in a sleep-like state.

Stretching out on his seldom-used bed Aziraphale's still inebriated mind wondered briefly if perhaps Crowley was onto something with enjoying sleep, before fluffing his tartan pillow and returning to the task at hand.

_Right... Crowley..._ he thought, picturing the demon's face in his mind and reaching out with his consciousness until he felt himself start to drift.

\---------------------------------------------

Aziraphale opened his eyes when he felt as if he'd touched bottom in a swimming pool. At first, he saw nothing. It was pitch black save for a faint glow from somewhere behind him.

Disorientated, he took a step and felt that he was standing on grass. The air was warm around him and he had no sooner determined that he must be in a garden or a park of some kind when he heard a heavy thud and the panting of two voices from behind a nearby row of bushes.

There was a pained noise in a voice that sounded unnervingly familiar.

"Crowley?!" Aziraphale called. _Clearly_ , he thought, _I was right to be worried about him_.

A loud bang rang out in the darkness along with a flash from behind the greenery. Aziraphale started towards the commotion when he heard another thump and his surroundings started to blur.

He tried to fight through the fuzziness to see what would happen next when a deafening explosion echoed from behind him near the source of the light. Aziraphale startled badly and jumped to face the cause of the noise. When his feet left the ground, he lost his grip on the rapidly blurring dream and felt himself falling back into consciousness.

Before he knew what was happening, he awoke with a start back in his own bed.

\---------------------------------------------

"What on Earth was that?!" Aziraphale gasped after taking a minute to calm his unnecessary breathing.

He had limited experience dreaming himself but on the few occasions he had, it had been nothing like THAT.

_Serves you right for snooping in your best friend's head,_ a small voice in the back of his mind scolded him. _You wanted to see if a demon could dream and NOW you'll be haunted by thoughts of that nightmare forever._

"How can he enjoy sleeping so much if that's what it does to him?" he asked the empty room. Abruptly, Aziraphale decided he needed to make more tea and to formulate a new plan. He would have to figure out what he could do, but he knew he couldn't leave Crowley to suffer that atrocious nightmare for another two months. 

_We're on our own side now after all._

* * *

[1] Aziraphale had admittedly felt badly about making the poor man work during a pandemic the first time he made a delivery to the shop last month, but he’d enjoyed their short interactions and always made sure to send him off with blessings for him and his wife, Maude, whom he talked about considerably in their chats. It was nice sensing that much love, and it **certainly did not** make him feel melancholy.

[2] Even more so than he had already.

[3] The idea first came about as an end-around devised by Raphael and Gabriel (back when they were on speaking terms) to avoid the paperwork required for a temporary rental from the corporation office. No one who didn't already have a permanent body issued to them (which was nearly everyone in the early centuries) wanted to bother with the hassle of going all the way down to Earth to deliver a two-minute message. Once they realized angels could simply project their consciousness into the unconscious or daydreaming mind of a human, it didn't take them long to decide that was going to be their communication method of choice unless explicitly instructed otherwise. While the solution was wildly convenient for angels stationed in Heaven, Aziraphale had had to spend significant time and miracles after Gabriel's first attempts, calming intended prophets down and modifying their memories to include more pleasant dreams with less eyes, and lightening, and fiery wings. Aziraphale's resulting handbook had smoothed the process significantly by requiring his co-workers to project a human appearance in the dreams, lead their messages with a command to 'be not afraid,' and end all communications with a reminder to awaken having dreamt of 'whatever you like best.' Even though dream messaging had faded from popularity with less direct orders from The Almighty, Aziraphale was still proud of the commendation he'd received for the effort. 

[4]Demons are, obviously, as capable of dreaming as any other sleeping being, however, Crowley was only one of two demons who had ever regularly experienced dreaming along with Lucifer himself. Prince Beelzebub had experienced the sensation once and had awoken greatly confused and angry about why "the Archangel Fucking Gabriel" had appeared to them naked and bound while they were trying to enjoy some well-earned sloth, and why, furthermore, it had made them feel so hot and tingly. Lord Asmodeus had laughed quite heartily at the prince's furious babbling after the incident and had found himself serving on hellhound feeding duty for several weeks afterwards as punishment.

[5] It was in fact a dream of a waterfowl stealing his car inspired by a threat that Crowley would find the vehicle “infested with foul pests” should he botch his assignment.

[6] Aziraphale had once noticed William admire Crowley's arse in a pair of particularly well-tailored tights and had vacillated on finding it funny and being extremely jealous over the centuries. Tonight, tipsy as he was, he had decided to find it amusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this answer some of your questions? Do you still have more? Don't worry: we will be back with Agent Crowley on Tuesday, but I hoped you enjoyed our little pop in with Aziraphale (I told some of you'd he'd be showing up). Shout out to Ann_Onemouse and AnnaKN2004 who figured out it was a dream visit. This was probably the chapter that underwent the most tweaks in the last couple weeks because I wanted to give you all more of our neurotic angel and do it right, so I hope I succeeded. Also, if any of you spotted that I refer to Beelzebub as "they" in Aziraphale's footnotes and "she" in Crowley's dream, I have a whole long, overthought reason for that in my head. If you are interested you can ask me about it, but otherwise just know it wasn't a type-o, I head-canon that Beez uses they/them pronouns in Hell and modern times but has used she/her pronouns in the past on Earth and therefore that's what Crowley projected for his story.
> 
> Thank you again for reading! Please follow or message me on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921)! I'd love to hear from you, and I'd love you forever for a birthday share. 🥰 (no pressure if you don’t do social though, I still love you!)
> 
> If by some miracle you feel compelled to create any "inspired by" Works, you absolutely have permission to do so! Just let me know and tag me. 
> 
> Don't think I forgot to throw this in after all these notes: thank you as always to [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for beta-ing.


	8. From Beelzebub With Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes to after his park attack to face down his nemesis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! We now return to the continued adventures of Agent 666. 
> 
> Now featuring cover art by my awesome friend [Carmine Zuigiber AKA War](https://twitter.com/goodomenswar) which can be seen [HERE](https://www.instagram.com/p/CFc9EtuFJ4b/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link). Once I figure out how to embed it properly on this site I will add it to Chapter 1!
> 
> ***Potential TRIGGER WARNING for blood and some violence in this chapter. There is another potential warning on this for anyone who might be claustrophobic or afraid of water. If that applies to you skip to the end notes and I will explain further, because I don't want spoilers ahead of the chapter.***

Crowley felt like his skull was on fire.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed since his vision had gone dark in the park, but he knew even without opening his eyes that he was no longer there. He could tell there were lights on behind his closed eyelids. He knew he had to open them and take in his surroundings, yet he dreaded the pain he was sure would accompany it when the light hit his pupils. He had to know though. He remembered an explosion… and a voice. Had Adam's team caused enough trouble and got away? Had they found him and extracted him? Was it actually one of his team members he had heard in the struggle, or was it…? He had to find out! Slowly he squinted his eyes open. He tilted his head and groaned from the pain. Whatever those two thugs had hit him with had been heavy. He barely felt like he could move. He could feel his arms lying limply on his chest, but everything felt heavy and sore.

His vision swam for a moment before shapes began coming into focus. His stomach twisted. Nothing looked familiar. The room around him was not a hospital room, nor was it his hotel room, or Newt's safe house. 

Instead he appeared to be in a sparsely furnished flat. The walls were dark, and the carpet looked in need of a shampooing. Against one wall there was an empty shelf and what looked to be a shipping crate. Crowley had determined that he himself was stretched across a supremely uncomfortable dark leather sofa and at the opposite end of the room stood what appeared to be the only other substantial furniture in the place, an imposing black marble desk.

Despite the throbbing in his head, Crowley made to lever himself upright, only to discover the reason he'd felt unable to move when he first woke up: his hands were cable-tied together at the wrist and fastened firmly to his belt against his right hip.

A surge of fear shot through his body, momentarily dispelling the pain in his head. Instinctively, he kicked his legs and found them also bound together with something much heavier than zip-ties. Before he could struggle further, he heard a door behind the couch swing open and a nasal voice with a faint Russian accent and a buzzing speech impediment droning into a phone.

"Yezz Red, I appreciate your flexibility... Glad we settled it all out... I trust my man's payment wazz sufficient?.... Excellent... Azzz I said, have your azzets out of New York by Saturday... Do Svidniya."

Crowley didn't need to see Beelzebub to know who had entered the room and closed his eyes again to feign unconsciousness as he heard her make her way to the desk.

Beelzebub rang off and the room fell silent for a moment.

"I know you're awake, Agent Crowley," Beelzebub said matter-of-factly.

"Well I'd have gotten up to say hello but I'm a bit tied up," he said as casually as he could. "Don't suppose we could have something done about that, could we, Comrade Zlaranova?"

The diminutive ex-KGB agent merely glared at him. He knew it had likely been years since she'd used her given name.

"No, I believe I'll leave you right where you are," she said, reaching for a decanter on the side of the desk and pouring herself a drink.

"I did want you to know that your sztunt in the park last night wazz an utter failure. I've juzt confirmed Mr. Arkangel completed hizz transaction twenty minutes ago."

"If you just brought me here to gloat you should have had your boys finish me off in the park," Crowley groaned, his head was starting to hurt again even as he took stock of every way he might escape. "This is truly torture."

"I had every intention of it," Beelzebub said coolly. "Would have looked like a mugging gone bad had it not been for your man's trick with the exploding dog. That wazz a nice touch, I admit."

 _Well that explains the explosion at least,_ Crowley made a mental note to thank Newt if he made it out of this and wondered idly if his team had at least captured Gabriel's man in the bedlam.

"Leaving a body near the zene of an explosion would have raized too many queztions," Beelzebub buzzed on. "You're now in my penthouzz. I'm leaving soon, but I azzure you, you won't be."

Crowley reevaluated the room and a sense of realization dawned on him. The room wasn't sparse because Beelzebub was a minimalist, it was sparse because she was moving, or more accurately, evacuating.

"The bombs are going off in New York then?" Crowley surmised out loud. If he could keep Beelzebub talking at least he might buy himself some time. "That's why you told the arms dealer to clear out."

Beelzebub didn't bite; instead, she just stared at him and took another sip of her drink, almost looking like she was enjoying this.

"What's the plan then? Upend the American economy? Avenge the toppling of the Soviet Union? Why's Arkangel going along?"

Crowley was speculating wildly. That idea sounded like a stretch even to him. There were people who could profit from war, but he didn’t think an American businessman with no apparent criminal history would be cold enough to let hundreds or thousands of U.S. civilians be bombed on the street just for money.

"You think so szmall..." Beelzebub said with a sly grin. "What makes you think I have any loyalty to the Zoviets after what they did to me?"

Crowley said nothing. He studied the other person's face and waited for her to give something away. A ray of emotion had cracked her cool facade momentarily and Crowley thought he detected a flicker of anger in the cold blue eyes behind the swath of messy dark hair and mottled scarring that obscured them. Yet as soon as he thought he saw it, it was gone.

"Thoze cowards gave up the fight," Beelzebub spat. "Why should I give a damn about avenging them?"

"Then why a bomb?" Crowley asked, secretly pleased he hadn't been corrected on that matter. MI6's best guess had been a bomb, potentially a nuclear one, from what had been pulled from A.G.N.E.S.'s transmissions, but they'd not confirmed that was what Arkangel was buying.

_Until now that is,_ Crowley thought smugly.

"Why nuke New York City if you aren't trying to settle a score from the Cold War?"

"Who szaid I'm not trying to zettle a score?" Beelzebub countered. "Thizzz is personal."

Before Crowley could press for more information, she continued. "Now, if you're done azking sztupid questions, I'm afraid it iz time to szay goodbye, Mr. Crowley."

Beelzebub raised a hand to lazily snap her fingers and Hastur and the other attacker from the park entered from the same door Beelzebub had come in through.

Crowley was somewhat pleased to see Hastur was sporting a bandage on his arm and a black eye.

_At least I did some damage on the way down,_ he thought.

"Hastur, Ligur, take care of Mr. Crowley. It's obvious he knows nothing elze of importance he could have passed on," Beelzebub said, sounding almost bored. "Oh! and do it quietly! We don't want the neighbors to zuspect anything."

"Sure thing Boss," the man who was apparently called Ligur said.

Beelzebub nodded, pulling a black suitcase from under the desk and turning to leave. "Good. Juzt dump the body when you bring the rezt of the boxes to the boat."

Beelzebub turned back and nodded once more to Crowley. "Goodbye, Double-zix Zix, it'z been fun."

Then she was gone, and Crowley was left bound and facing down the two henchmen.

"Hi guys," he said nervously.

Hastur stared him down with humorless, dead eyes and Crowley tried not to visibly gulp as he struggled to think of a way out.

"How should we do this?" Hastur asked.

Ligur looked around the apartment for a moment until his unsettling iridescent eyes settled on a door across the room.

"I've got an idea," he said with a sadistic smirk. "Go run a bath."

Hastur looked dully at his partner and Ligur jerked his head again towards what Crowley guessed was a bathroom. "Jus' do it," he snapped. "We gotta dump the body on the way to the boat, right?"

Hastur nodded, still not understanding what Crowley was starting to see as Ligur's plan.

"We can still make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Who's gonna check if a drowned body in the harbor was dead before he fell in?"

Hastur, finally getting it, grinned maliciously. "Right," he said unnecessarily, heading to the other room.

Ligur grabbed Crowley firmly under the arms and hauled him off the sofa to his feet.

The redhead staggered immediately and pitched forward to the floor as his legs, which were still bound together, had lost nearly all sensation.

Ligur let out a humorless guffaw at the spectacle, and Crowley took advantage of his momentary collapse, shifting his hidden wrist as much as possible against the floor, twisting his watch around his left arm so the long fingers of his right hand could brush its face.

Before he could get a solid grip on the gadget though, he was kicked swiftly in the ribs and hauled roughly to his feet once again.

"No stalling, Crawley," Ligur grunted in his ear before shoving him forward.

Crowley was surprised to discover his legs were bound loose enough for him to move, but in a heavy enough chain so as to make shuffling the only viable method of doing so.

"It's Crow-ley!" he spat back, not caring if he angered the other man. If the crazy, half-cocked plan he was hatching went pear shaped he didn't want to go down quietly. "Your boss is wrong, you know…" Crowley said as Ligur continued to roughly shove him across the room.

"'bout what?" Ligur snarled.

"Me," he said as if it were obvious. "She thinks I don't know anything more, but I do and I'm not the only one," he babbled, trying to make sure the other man's attention stayed on what he was saying and not how he was still squirming his hands to find the button on his watch that would activate the accessory's saw blade.

"If you think that blond fop what was snooping around about the gala's gonna swoop in and save the day, then think again," Ligur said with a snort. "Once we get you outta the way it's only a matter of time before Gabriel takes care of him."

Crowley jerked his wrist a bit too roughly at the man's casual mention of Aziraphale and the zip-tie cut into his flesh. He ground his teeth against the pain and focused on what the idiot behind him had just admitted: He couldn’t have heard Aziraphale in the park, but he was alive, and the target was the gala.

_Aziraphale you brilliant bastard!_ Crowley thought. His angel had been onto more than he'd realized.

"Of course I don't think that!" Crowley snapped. "Why would I be here if I didn't know he'd been caught, you git? I thought he was dead!"

"He should have been," Hastur said with a sneer. Crowley had been so preoccupied he hadn't heard the third man reenter the room, but he immediately halted his struggling with the watch. "Old Gabe just didn't want to get his pretty hands dirty."

As interesting as Crowley found the men's disdain for their boss' co-conspirator, he doubted a man willing to let his own country get nuked for Satan-only-knew what reasons would worry about dispatching one nosy British spy. There had to be another reason Aziraphale was being kept alive.

_Maybe he knew even more than we realized._

"Well I'm sure neither of you fine gentlemen have ever worried about keeping anything clean," Crowley said with as much of a shrug as his bound hands would allow, giving Hastur and his grubby coat a pointed look.

He was answered with a dirtier than predicted fist to the side of his jaw.

Crowley staggered. He was sure he would have fallen over again had it not been for Ligur's death-grip on his shoulder.

_Should have hit him in the other arm,_ Crowley thought as he worked his mouth around. He kept his head turned to the side as he attempted to click the joint back in place.

As he felt the painful but reassuring pop, his gaze landed on a side table and his spirits perked up. Sitting on a tray on the table were his gun, the lighter, and his smashed sunglasses.

Before he could fully process this information, he was shoved again from behind.

"Quit stalling!" Ligur barked at him again, jostling him to the side and shoving him into an obscenely large, ornate bathroom.

Had he not known the room was soon to be the scene of his own execution, he might have appreciated the artistically stark decor. The walls were all white, the floor was grey, and all the fixtures were glossy black marble, including a monstrously large bathtub sunk into the floor on the far side of the room. It was steadily filling. From this angle, it was difficult to gauge its exact size, but Crowley could guess it was several feet deep, shallow enough to stand in and keep one's head above water, but absolutely deep enough to drown in if one was lying down. He suspected there was some sort of Jacuzzi seat inside, but he couldn't see through the water, which appeared as dark as the ocean at night against the ebony marble.

"Get something heavy," Ligur ordered Hastur, as he rummaged through a nearby cabinet to produce an elastic bandage.

A moment later Hastur returned with a hideous stone sculpture of a fly, which Crowley had noticed earlier on Beelzebub's desk. In any other circumstances he would have questioned everything about its presence in the flat and its existence on this Earth, but at the moment he was too focused on the way Ligur began to mummify the thing in the reusable bandage and figuring out how they planned to use it to weigh him down.

It took little time before his question was answered. He struggled as Ligur moved to grab his shoulders from behind once again and Hastur looped the loose end of the bandage around his neck.

Instinctively, Crowley threw his head back, bashing Ligur hard in the nose.

For a moment, the other man let go and Crowley seized the opportunity, ignoring the refreshed pain in his head and throwing as much of his weight as he could towards Hastur.

The white-haired man dodged, and Crowley made to shuffle a step further away, but was stopped when the slack bandage was suddenly pulled taught, cutting off his air.

"Nice try Crawly," Hastur said mockingly. "Is that the best you could do?"

Crowley choked but managed to spit in the other man's face in answer.

Hastur sneered, tying a knot in the bandage to anchor Crowley's neck to the hideous statue. The release of the man's hands on the line allowed the redhead to take in a little more air, which he did with a gasp as a knife cut into his side from behind.

Crowley doubled over as much as possible in his bonds, unable to grasp his bleeding side as Ligur stepped around him, holding the bloody knife in one hand and grasping his bloody nose with the other.

"Go get the boxes ready!" he snapped at Hastur. "I'll clean up in here."

Hastur nodded then decked Crowley once more so he fell back into the tub. As he fell, he heard the splash of the statue being chucked into the tub after him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TW: This chapter ends with a cliffhanger with Crowley in peril tied up and left to drown. Obviously, it's a dream and he can't actually die, but if that sort of thing will bother you, you may want to wait until the next update comes out to read this or at least maybe don't read before bed. ***
> 
> End notes for everyone else: Sorry about leaving you on yet another cliffhanger. I swear when I wrote this out I didn't plan on doing that but Chapters 8,9, and part of 10 were all one giant hand-written block of text and it was getting WAY too long so this is how it made sense to break it up. (Plus I had two good titles that applied for this Penthouse Capture scene and I figured this way I could use them both LOL). 
> 
> The GOOD NEWS is you won't have to wait long on the next update! I will be releasing Chapter 9 on Thursday instead of Friday this week since Friday and Saturday are the release dates for the BT Tower Telephone event through the "Do It With Style" events server, which I am partaking in. I have two entries to prepare for publication with that, and I didn't want this getting lost in the shuffle. 
> 
> Now that we've gotten all that out of the way, thank you once again, one and all for reading! I would love to hear from you in the comments with your thoughts on this chapter or your theories on what might happen next, it's always a thrill to know what you're thinking. Please follow or message me on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921)! It's always fun to talk with you all, and signal boosts/shares are always appreciated!
> 
> Finally, thanks as always to [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for beta-ing.


	9. No Mr. Crowley, I Expect You to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's daring escape from the clutches of Hastur and Ligur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! And now the exciting conclusion of Crowley's captivity in Beelzebub's penthouse! (The wait wasn't THAT bad, right?) 
> 
> TW: Continued action movie violence and mentions of blood from the previous chapter, but the worst of the peril is over.
> 
> Also, if you haven't yet, please check out this fantastic [cover art](https://www.instagram.com/p/CFc9EtuFJ4b/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) by [Carmine Zuigiber AKA War](https://twitter.com/goodomenswar) also featuring on Chapter 1 of this story now!

Crowley couldn't see a thing in the inky blackness of the bathtub and the only sound he could clearly hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat, a sensation he felt echoed in his left side where every beat pumped blood from his open wound.

He knew he didn't have much time. The water was deep enough so his head couldn't reach the surface, weighed down as he was by the concrete fly.

Gathering as much of his wits as he could, Crowley groped, unseeing, with the fingers of his right hand, feeling the smooth watch face on his left wrist.

_Come on, for Somebody's sake, where is it?!_

His hand slipped from the smooth glass face to the button on the side and his heart jumped painfully. He was starting to panic. His lungs were starting to burn, and he knew if he'd been able to see more than vague shapes in the water, they'd be blurring around the edges by now.

He gave another clumsy twist with his fingers and he felt the watch shift, the circular blade emerging from the bezel and beginning to spin. He began wriggling his arms as rapidly as he could, jostling and pulling his wrists to bring the cable-tie in contact with the razor-sharp blade.

He felt a sudden tug, a snap, and stinging pain as the blade broke the skin on the back of his right hand, but with it he felt a rush of relief because his hand was free! Reaching up to his neck, he grappled with the elastic knot, pulling to no avail.

His lungs screamed and he realized it was no use. Quickly, he shifted his hand to his snake belt buckle, undoing it with practiced ease even in the dark. With the belt undone, he was able to slide his left hand free of its bondage against his hip and bring it, and the watch-saw, immediately to the elastic cord around his neck.

Crowley broke the surface of the water with a splash and a ragged gasp for air. He had just gotten to his still weighted and bound feet and was gulping in as much air as he could when Ligur turned to glare at him from the sink. He looked startled and was clutching a bloody wad of toilet paper to his nose. 

"Where do you think you're going?" the henchman sneered, grabbing the knife from the vanity.

Crowley gasped in one last breath and dove back under the surface of the water.

Ligur followed him, stepping down to the seating ledge so he was submerged to the knee.

He wasn't expecting Crowley to sweep his legs out from under him with a now free arm.

The blade slipped from Ligur's fingers as his head cracked sickeningly on the side of the tub. If he wasn't dead when his body fell into the water, he was after Crowley found the knife.

Crowley was still breathing heavily as he hauled himself onto the tub seat. Ligur's body was floating ominously next to him in water which, even against the black marble, Crowley could see was now tinted red from both their blood.

With a great expenditure of his quickly waning strength, Crowley pulled his legs to the seat and pushed his torso out of the bloody water to sit on the side of the tub. He didn't know how long he had until Hastur came looking for his comrade, but he knew he had to move quickly.

The chains on his legs were fastened with a small padlock; easy enough to pick if he had more than just Ligur's knife at his disposal. Fighting against the searing pain in his side, Crowley stretched to the vanity door and pulled it open. What he was looking for he didn't exactly know, but he'd settle for gauze. His eyes lit up when he spotted the hair pin.

"Wahoo," he muttered, slipping the thin piece of metal from the cabinet.

It took him little time to spring the cheap lock loose and free his legs with the bent pin and knife. He staggered to his feet ignoring the stiffness in his legs and moving unsteadily back to the sink. He needed to stop the bleeding.

Throwing open every cabinet and drawer in the room, Crowley searched for something to staunch the blood flow. It seemed nearly everything of first aid value had been emptied from the room. Crowley wondered absently where Beelzebub planned on hiding out after the attack that she had taken everything with her.

Tearing through the cabinets nothing of use presented itself: a handful of loose Q-tips, a mostly empty bottle of cologne, a disposable nail file, dental floss. The ball of toilet paper he'd snatched off the sparse remains of the roll was already soaking through; he'd need something more substantial soon.

Pulling open the vanity he jolted for a moment at the sight of a bandage box just to find it contained only half a dozen miniature Band-Aids.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" he hissed, wincing as he spun too fast on his heel.

He pulled open the door of the black cabinet under the sink in search of more toilet paper and saw an old washcloth.

"Oh God no," he moaned. The thing had clearly been long forgotten; rolled into a ball when still wet and left to air dry for longer than could possibly be sanitary. It practically crunched when his hand brushed it.

From the other room Crowley heard a heavy thump and cringed. He had to be running short on time before Hastur came back.

Gritting his teeth at what he was about to do, Crowley snatched up the filthy rag and the pitiful remains of the cologne. Pulling aside his tattered, dripping shirt, he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and dumped the alcoholic liquid over the gash. He hissed uncontrollably as he pushed the horrid rag against the wound.

"Bad idea," he hissed under his breath after a stream of unintelligible curses in every language he knew.

Staggering back over to the tub he dropped to his knees and reached into the now-murky water, groping for the elastic bandage.

"Where are you?" he grumbled, just as he felt the fabric float past his fingers. With a tug, he managed to pull the wrap from the water and began to reel in the statue.

"Come on, come on," he muttered. He was getting nervous. Hastur's shuffling from the other side of the door was getting louder and he needed to get some pressure on his side.

Finally, he felt the edge of the statue and pulled the hideous knick-knack out of the water. Slicing off a portion of the bandage with Ligur's knife, Crowley tied it as tightly as he could around his middle, holding the old washcloth in place.

Taking the tiniest breath of relief, Crowley straightened up and refastened his belt. He still needed a plan. Before he could formulate one, the door to the bathroom swung open and Crowley flattened himself against the wall behind it.

"Oi, Ligur! You done sorting your nose out? 'e's got to be dead by now..." Hastur yelled, before letting out a startled, high-pitched shriek at the sight of his friend's dead body in the tub.

Crowley took advantage of his surprise and threw his weight into the door, swinging it back on the other man.

Hastur staggered back and Crowley grabbed the statue off the floor. He used it like a shield, ramming it into Hastur's chest as he charged past him though the doorway. Tossing the sculpture aside, Crowley dove for the side table he'd seen on his way to the tub and snatched up his gun, rounding on the other man and leveling it at his chest.

"Just turn around and let me leave and this doesn't have to get messier," he offered.

"Unlikely," Hastur grunted.

"This is a Walther PPK," Crowley said coolly as the still winded Hastur stared him down, fists clenched but tilted up as if contemplating surrender. "It delivers a 7.65 millimeter round like a brick through a plate glass window; standard issue for all Double-Six agents. I've got six rounds still in the magazine. If you don't want to wind up like your friend there, you're going to let me go now."

"You're bluffing," Hastur sneered. "Beez could have emptied it at any time."

"Maybe she did," Crowley acknowledged. "The question is, do you feel lucky?"

Hastur looked from the gun to Crowley and sneered.

"Yes!" he spat and lunged forward.

Crowley pulled the trigger without a second thought and heard the horrible click of an empty chamber. He'd been afraid of that. It's why he hadn't shot immediately.

Crowley dodged sideways. Even injured he was much more agile than the other man, and Hastur's wounded left arm wasn't doing him any favors.

Crowley pulled Ligur's knife from his pocket and held it out to keep Hastur at bay, circling around to keep his eyes on him. He noticed a large wooden crate open a short walk away, likely where they'd intended to put his body.

"You're not as stupid as you look," Crowley said begrudgingly, side-stepping towards the crate so it stood behind him.

Hastur followed but remained out of striking distance of the knife.

"Not like Ligur in there," Crowley goaded. "That idiot fell right into my trap. Followed me into the tub and gave me a weapon. It's like he wanted to die."

Crowley could tell he was getting under Hastur's skin from the twitch in the other man's black eyes. If he had to guess, they'd worked together for a long time.

"What's ole' Beez gonna zzzay when they find out I killed him and got away, I wonder?" Crowley said in a mocking impression of Beelzebub's accent. "Bet she won't be happy with you. Maybe send you to Hell to join him herself. I'm sure you two won't be too hard to replace."

Hastur snapped. The white-haired henchman dove at Crowley in a rage. By the time he noticed the agent's smirk it was too late for him to slow down. Crowley stepped swiftly to the side and brought the empty gun down on the back of Hastur's skull as he tripped and crashed head-first into the crate. Crowley slid the lid into place with a satisfying click before dashing back over to the side table to grab up his lighter and glasses and pulling Beelzebub's desk chair over to the crate and hefting it on top of the box.

"So long sucker," he hissed as he dashed out of the flat towards the lift.

\---------------------------------------------

Crowley strode out of the lift as casually as he could while soaking wet and bleeding from the hand and side.

The doorman stared at him with a look of combined suspicion and horror and Crowley wondered for a second if he was on Beelzebub's payroll.

"Kitchen accident," he said as nonchalantly as possible while soaking wet and bleeding from the hand and side. "Right klutz me, just need to pop off to the hospital. No worries."

He limped out the door, avoiding all other eye contact and hoping the man felt no need to alert security or the penthouse's owner. As he came out into the early afternoon sunlight, he was pleasantly surprised for the first time in days. He was standing on Central Park West, only blocks from where he'd left the car.

"Thank Somebody!" he gasped and hustled up the street away from the building as fast as his throbbing side would allow.

Crowley thought he would collapse by the time he reached the Bentley, which unlocked with a tap of his watch. He was so relieved to get inside the car and away from prying eyes he almost didn't see the wheel clamp on the front tire, until the ticket in the window caught his eye.

"Oh! for Heaven's sake!" he grumbled, turning the key in the ignition and reaching under the dashboard. His hand lighted on one of Newt's special triggers and there was a pop like a gunshot as spiked metal pistons shot from the hubcaps of the car with enough force to shatter the clamp’s lock, and Crowley pulled the car back out into New York's congested streets.

Less worried than he should be about the traffic, Crowley rifled through the glove box for his mobile, throwing aside a road map, a clip of ammo, and a pack of mint chewing gum as he weaved recklessly between lanes, focusing only enough to remember which side of the road he had to stay on.

He was doing 50 miles-per-hour and bouncing dangerously between cars, a cacophony of horns and curse words following him, by the time he finally located and switched on the phone.

"Call Adam!" he commanded the voice assistant, swerving around a cyclist as he made his way towards the Q-Branch outpost.

The phone rang twice before the junior agent's voice rang into the car on speaker phone.

"Crowley?!" Where are you? What happened?"

"I'm heading for Newt's workshop! Call him, tell him I'm on my way and to have a medic on standby. Then get Shadwell and Anathema on the phone. I know what the target is!"

"Shadwell's already on his way," Adam said. "He had a breakthrough on Arkangel; said he had to show us in person."

"Great. I’ll see you all in fifteen minutes. We’ll debrief," Crowley gasped, wrenching the wheel to swerve again, narrowly dodging a pedestrian and jostling his injury uncomfortably. "Don't forget the medic!"

As Adam's voice vanished from the car, Crowley fumbled for the stereo. He needed to focus on something to stay awake. Freddie Mercury's voice immediately came belting out of the speakers.

_"Keep yourself alive, keep yourself alive, all you people keep yourself alive."_

Crowley snickered. "I'm trying Freddie."

He shifted up and pushed even harder on the accelerator to miraculously skirt through an intersection before the light could change completely to red.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I didn't specifically mention minor character death as trigger warning on this chapter, but it is in the tags for the story and I imagine most of you saw that coming. From this point forward there are several more minor character deaths but as it’s a dream and none of them are really dead I probably won’t be tagging it as anything more than “violence”.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! This story has officially reached over 1000 hits and I’m just absolutely thrilled with the reception I’ve gotten. Please continue to let me know what you think in the comments now that we're through that intense portion of the story, I love kudos and hearing from you.
> 
> Fun Fact: Crowley's line to Hastur about the Walther PPK is taken directly from the book "Dr. No." I was looking up the caliber of the bullets and info about the gun while I was writing this and trying to figure out how to reword Crowley's plant mister monologue when I came across this line and it was so perfect I just stuck it right in. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this early update! I will be back as usual on Tuesday, but in the meantime please check out the BT Tower Telephone Event this weekend. I have two entries in the Aziraphale/Crowley "Fluff" category, one SFW (Group C) and one NSFW (Group H) and I'd love to hear what you think. I will be posting links on my social media pages [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921) so if you want updates, please find and follow me.


	10. You Know My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Company debrief and uncover more of Gabriel's backstory and his plot with Beelzebub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Hope you all enjoyed your weekends. I've got a shorter chapter for you today, in which Shadwell gets to play Mr. Exposition, a decision I almost immediately regretted because his incomprehensible speech pattern is hard to write (I apologize in advance for any inaccuracy with character voice or annoyance his type-o ridden speech may cause).

Crowley whipped through the tunnel into Newt's lab, spun the car into a parking space and staggered out of the driver's seat before the engine had fully quieted.

"Oi! Where is e'ryone?" he slurred at the assistant, Brian, his brain reminded him dully.

"In the lab," the boy, who appeared to be covered in motor oil and soot[1] answered.

"I might need a hand then," Crowley slurred. He staggered three steps before he collapsed, his adrenaline finally giving out.

When he next opened his eyes, Crowley found himself on a hospital bed with Newt and a middle-aged black woman with short hair styled in a bob and a gentle face standing over him. Judging by her lab coat, Crowley guessed she was a doctor.

"Good to see you awake, Mr. Crowley," the woman said in a very businesslike manner. "I can't believe you stayed conscious to get here. You lost quite a bit of blood, thankfully the wound wasn't very deep. No damage done to your internal organs. I was able to stitch you up in no time. Quite a nasty rag you had holding it together though. I've got you on an extra antibiotic for that thing. Might have had a bit of a concussion too."

_Concussion_ , Crowley registered, thinking of the hits he took in the park. _That could explain the voice…_

“I see,” he said simply. “How long was I out Doctor..?"

"Mary Loquacious," she introduced herself, before pressing right on with her story. "It was only a few hours. And some of it was because of the drugs. You should be back up on your feet by the end of the week."

"I don't have that kind of time," Crowley cut her off. He turned hurriedly to Newt, who appeared to have been trying and failing to get a word in. "Where are the others? We need to talk. We don't have much time!"

"They're in the conference room, I'll bring them in," the quartermaster replied before bolting from the room.

Crowley spent several stressful minutes receiving a health update from a constantly chattering Dr. Mary and extracted only one useful piece of information from her: that it was early Thursday morning.

"Yes, you were out for a good twelve hours or so, really lucky it wasn't worse, of course I still had to give you quite a few stitches. The cut on your hand we were able to just bandage, but your side was in quite a state…"

Behind her Crowley heard the door open and Newt attempted to interrupt.

"Excuse me. Doctor? Could we have a moment?"

She barely noticed him, apparently quite intent on giving her patient every gory detail of his treatment.

"Away wi' ya woman!" Shadwell bellowed. "We've got important business t' discuss."

Crowley blinked in surprise, but the outburst did the trick. Dr. Mary startled, then nodded curtly to the now assembled team of agents before giving Crowley a stern look. "Try not to get too excited," she said. "I'll check up with you later."

"Does everyone who works with you have to be barking mad, Pulsifer?" Crowley asked incredulously.

"She gets the job done," Newt said noncommittally. Crowley took it as a 'yes.'

"Right. Well, we've got two days before a massive bomb goes off in Manhattan," Crowley said bluntly. "You lot got any idea how to stop it?" 

"What's the target Crowley?" Anathema's stern voice piped up from thin air.

Crowley jumped, jerking his IV. "Bloody Hell! Where is she?" he hissed.

"For Heaven's sake," Pepper gasped, clearly exasperated. She snatched a phone out of Newt's hands and turned it to face the wounded agent. "She's on FaceTime."

Crowley took in his boss' face and was satisfied to see a hint of concern evident on it.

"Hi, A," he said, taking the phone from Pepper. "They didn't finish me off yet, sorry to disappoint."

"Glad to hear you pulled through. You know you can only die when I say so, Crowley."

"Well I might know just the time and place," Crowley said drily, with just a hint of a smirk at his boss before turning to the serious matter at hand. "This Saturday evening at a charity gala at the Ritz. Two former presidents will be there and a who's who of philanthropists and businesspeople from around the country."

Adam gasped. "That's why Aziraphale had that magazine!"

"Yep," Crowley said, popping the P. "He was onto the whole thing, which is probably why Gabriel, or whatever his name is, has kept him alive; they want to know what he knew."

"Eastgate is still alive?" Anathema asked, looking somewhat surprised, but pleased.

"Was as of last night," Crowley said, a feeling like a lead balloon dropping in his stomach. "Arkangel has him."

"Heralding," Shadwell interrupted.

"Wot?" Crowley asked. "Arkangel's real name is Gabriel Heralding, young Pulsifer and our men in Langley ran 'is face through the computer. 'e's had work done but those eyes are hard t' hide. A couple of our boys recognized 'im from back in the Cold War. Used to be one of ours."

"He's CIA?!" Crowley yelled, so startled he dropped the phone.

"I've read the briefing," Anathema snapped. "What I want to know now is how did everyone miss this?"

"Ah, well, tha' Ms. Device is rather simple,” Shadwell answered. “E'ryone thought 'e was dead."

"Oh well, that explains it doesn't it?" Crowley drawled sarcastically. "What happened?"

"'twas before I came on," Shadwell said. "But from the reports I gathered 'e was crooked for a while."

From a wrinkled, brown satchel Shadwell pulled a folder that held what appeared to be several old newspaper clippings and printed out reports.

Crowley took the folder and flipped it open.

"From what we could find he was a good agent for years, but somethin' happened. We're not sure what, but he was stationed in East Germany for a coupl'a years and when he came back by all accounts he was obsessed with the arms race; and from what one of the agents who worked with ‘im said, not just with amassing weapons, with using ‘em," Shadwell reported. "At the time he wasn't the only one, so his superiors put it off on too much time spent seeing the damage being done. 'E was working with anti-Soviet locals and a lot of 'em had criminal backgrounds. Everyone assumed 'e'd jus' got a bit over eager and decided to keep 'im state-side after that."

Crowley nodded, processing Shadwell's words as he continued to skim the file. He'd landed on a document outlining Gabriel's whereabouts during his years in the field and a spark of recognition flared. Gabriel had been stationed in Berlin at the same time Beezebub had been. He knew from his own experience that enemy agents often crossed each other in the field, especially in those days, and it wasn't uncommon to develop arrangements with a worthy opponent; usually nothing extensive: some overlooked sightings, a delay reporting an asset's findings in exchange for the name of a diplomat on the take, small favors between agents whose primary job was to cancel each other out.

_Could Beelzebub and Gabriel have encountered each other like that? Had spending time with smugglers and anarchists, and working alongside-but-against a militant lunatic have corrupted an over-eager patriot into craving a war no one would ever win?_ The thought had merit.

"He'd been back over a year when the first red flag was raised," Shadwell continued. "'Parrently another agent, identified only as Smyth, requested an investigation because of all his grumblings. Then a fella in accounting discovered the embezzlement. Apparently, Heralding's reported expenses didn't add up. 'E'd been using mission assets for his own purposes for months in Germany."

"Doing what?" Adam suddenly spoke up. "I read the report but none of it’s not very specific."

"Unclear," Shadwell answered. "Might have been smuggling, gambling, jus' livin' the high life. The investigation stalled before it could be finished 'cuz Heralding died in a car crash before he could be fired or charged."

"Rumor at the time was he knew he was about to be caught, got drunk, and drove the car into a river," Warlock suddenly spoke up.

Crowley's head jerked up; he had not even realized the dark-haired boy had come in with the others.

When Newt gave him a puzzled look, the young agent shrugged.

"My dad works in the government. He said it was quite a scandal at the time and everyone wanted to sweep it under the rug."

"Exactly," Shadwell confirmed. "Din't find the body for three days. Had to identify 'im by his clothes 'n wallet, and e'ryone was so busy hidin’ the story from the public, the investigation was closed. People assumed what they wanted."

"And presumably in the scramble, Heralding used an alias, sneaked back to Germany and got his criminal friends to get him a new identity and face so he could use all his stolen money," Crowley surmised.

A nod of agreement went around the room.

"The earliest public records of Arkangel date three years after Heralding's death," Anathema added from Crowley's lap, causing the agent to startle again. In the rush of information, he had forgotten his boss was there electronically.[2]

"What I don't understand is how he fits in with Beelzebub and why they'd bomb a charity gala," Newt mused.

"They knew each other already," Crowley said simply, holding up the paper from the file. "She was in Berlin at the time he was. I traced her work history back when I was hunting her after her attempted mutiny. I tried to find all the contacts she might have had back in the day. There were rumors about an American she crossed paths with, but nobody had a name, and he was long gone by then."

"Arkangel," Anathema breathed.

"Yup," Crowley agreed. "My best bet is they reunited recently, otherwise why wait 'til now?"

"Why wait for what?" Wensleydale asked.

"To start the war they both wanted," Crowley replied.

There was a second of horrified silence before Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale all shouted at once.

"What?!"

"Are you serious?!"

"No!"

"I don't understand," added Warlock, "How will this start a war? Won't it just look like a terrorist attack?"

"Not if they use a Russian bomb, Crowley said matter-of-factly. "And if they bought them from who I think they did, that's exactly what they'll do."

"Crowley, what are you talking about?" Newt asked. "Who are the bombs coming from?"

"Red," Crowley said with grim certainty, thinking back to the conversation he had heard in Beelzebub’s flat; the faint, feminine voice that he could just detect coming through the other end. "Carmine Zuigiber."

The younger agents looked confused, but Newt, Anathema, and Shadwell all grimaced.

"The Horseman of War," Anathema groaned from the phone. 

"Yep," Crowley said with a solemn nod.

* * *

[1] No doubt the result of another one of Newt's ill-fated pyrotechnic experiments.

[2] The sheer number of people in the room piping up at random was starting to give hm whiplash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading! Are you intrigued? The next update is one of the longest (and craziest) chapters in the story, so I promise it will make up for this little one. 
> 
> Until Friday if you are looking for some extra reading material I highly suggest you check out the [BT Tower Telephone Event](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/BT_Tower_Telephone). I have entries in two of these series, along with a lot of very talented writers and artists who all contributed pieces based on a redacted version of the piece that came before theirs. It was great fun and there is something for everyone as each of the 9 groups was given a rating and a genre, so there's comedy, angst, and fluff all represented. My two pieces are [The Best Laid Plans of Snakes and Squirrels](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26585515), a SFW fluff piece in Group C including Snake!Crowley and a squirrel thwarting his plans to propose, and [An Idea Was Planted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26586595), a NSFW romp from Group H including some light bondage with Crowley's plants. 
> 
> Please continue to let me know what you think (of any of my work) in the comments. I love kudos and hearing from you. As always you can also find me on social media at [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921). 
> 
> Ciao!


	11. The Man-Shaped Being with the Golden Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to the mission on which Agent Crowley's path previously crossed with "The Horseman of War" and, coincidentally, he met a certain fellow agent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different...  
> Happy beginning of October! I am SOOOO excited to share this chapter with you. This scene was not in my original outline for this story but part way through it absolutely demanded to be written, and it is one of my favorites. This chapter is basically it's own side adventure within the dream within the story. Be prepared: here lie spy movie clichés and ridiculous cameos!
> 
> CW: Action movie violence

"I still don't understand," said Pepper. "Who is this Red bitch?"

"She's a ghost," Anathema answered with a sigh. "An arms dealer to the elite terrorists and warlords of the world. Her fingerprints have been present in every major conflict in Europe, Africa, and the Middle East for the last thirty years, but she's always gone before anything goes bad."

Pepper's eyes went wide. She looked somewhere between impressed and annoyed. "Wow," she said noncommittally. "And nobody's ever been able to get a shot at her?"

"We've tried," Anathema said. "Only one mission ever came close, and at that point we didn't know exactly who we were dealing with. Did we Crowley?"

Pepper, Adam, Brian, Wensleydale, and Warlock all turned in unison to look at Crowley, who gulped. The day he crossed paths with Carmine Zuigiber, had been on the same mission he first worked with Aziraphale.

"It's a long story," he said.

\---------------------------------------------

_ Ten Years Earlier _

Crowley had been called into Anathema's office like any other day, exactly one week after an oil company executive had turned up dead overseas, his body found with an ominous note threatening death to people who "poison the Earth."

The man's company had recently been the cause of a major oil spill. A tragic mistake, no doubt, but hardly an act of gross negligence on the company's part: a tanker had been caught in a storm and capsized. Thousands of gallons of oil had spilled, poisoning a coral reef and untold aquatic life.

Crowley recalled being saddened by a photo of an oil-covered dolphin being hauled out of the sea by rescuers.

"Nasty business that," Crowley sighed when Anathema asked what he knew of the case.

"Indeed," she said. "Anyway, we've been asked to investigate the murder because the company board has reason to suspect this was the work of eco-terrorists, and that they may be planning to strike again."

"Eco-terrorists?" Crowley parroted. "Hardly my area of expertise."

"Agreed," Anathema said with a nod. "That's why you're taking this one on with a partner. You've got more field experience, so we want you on the job, but he's an expert on organizations who justify violence with claims of morality."

Crowley scoffed as she hit the intercom button on her desk. "Ms. Tracy, would you send in Agent Eastgate please?"

"Right away, love," Tracy's kindly voice answered.

The door opened a moment later and Crowley's brain stopped functioning momentarily.

"Anthony Crowley, meet Aziraphale Eastgate," Anathema said. "He moved to field work from analysis and psychological profiling last year..."

Crowley wasn't listening though. He was too stunned that the soft, pretty, blond in front of him (wearing a tartan bowtie of all things!) could POSSIBLY be a field agent. Sure, he looked like he might be strong, but something about his cherubic smile and halo of curls stood at odds with every other spy, soldier, and criminal Crowley had ever crossed in his career. He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or scold Anathema for the insane idea of sending this sweet-looking creampuff of a person into the field after violent terrorists.

He had settled on an inarticulate sound of greeting consisting mostly of consonants.

"Nice to meet you, Dear Boy," Aziraphale replied with a smile, surprising Crowley with a crushingly strong handshake. "Shall we get started then?"

\--------------

Three weeks of early mornings, late nights, and interspersed bickering later, Crowley and Aziraphale had tracked the murder to a radical environmental organization headed by noted marine biologist Mako Dagon, heir to a vast family fortune of questionable origin and an outspoken critic of ocean polluters. Dagon had been on the record with extreme views about humanity's impact on the planet and they were known to have fixation with sharks.

MI6 surveillance indicated that Dagon would be meeting with a collaborator at their home in Italy, potentially to plan their next move. Aziraphale thought it would be the most prudent time to intercept them.[1]

The Bentley sped down the curving road towards the Mediterranean and Aziraphale squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, shouting as Crowley swerved the car to pull around a Vespa.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, clutching the dashboard. "I know you have a license to kill but I don't think that applies to vehicular manslaughter!"

"Oh relax!" Crowley huffed in irritation. "We've got to get there quickly if we're going to disrupt this meeting."

Another few turns and Crowley parked the car at the base of the cliff in an alcove he scouted the day before. Down the road was the gate to the estate property. The house itself sat perched on the cliff overlooking the sea.

"Nice view they've got," Crowley remarked as Aziraphale exited the car and straightened the collar of his dark shirt. He'd forsaken his signature bowtie for the first time since Crowley met him but had steadfastly insisted on his button-down shirt, much to Crowley's annoyance. They had to be stealthy, and as much as Crowley had to admit he found Aziraphale's strange fashion choices oddly suited to him,[2] he was convinced his own jet-black turtleneck and fitted trousers were better suited to the task. At least Aziraphale had worn something dark for a change.[3]

The trek up the cliff had been grueling. They had stuck to the road, hiding in the shadows of the rock face for as long as possible before they began scaling the actual side of the cliff.

Crowley was surprised by how well Aziraphale held his own on the climb. Yes, he was obviously winded now that they stood at the top, but the speed at which he'd scaled the rock made Crowley wonder just how much of the stocky exterior was actually camouflaged muscle.

He shook his head. Now was not the time to think about that.

"You ready?" he asked his still huffing partner. He didn't want to stay still too long.

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale replied, taking one last deep breath. "We had better get a wiggle on."

Without another word, the blond headed off towards the tree line, leaving Crowley to ponder what he’d just heard.

"Wiggle on?" he repeated incredulously under his breath. _How could someone so clever be so stupid?_ he thought as he followed after the other agent.

Their plan was to enter from a veranda on the side of the house. As they got closer to their destination Crowley began to assess the logistics from their current location crouched in a hedgerow. He could see the guard post by the main gate which their cliffside entrance had averted. Behind it, he saw three motorcycles, two white and one fire engine red, parked in the cobblestone driveway alongside a black four-by-four. He assumed they belonged to Dagon's contact and their entourage. The contact was known to them only as "Red" and was assumed, but not confirmed, to be a woman.

"Alright, looks like security is focused on the door now that Red's here," Crowley said. "There might be one bloke up there watching the balcony. I'll go up first. You jam the camera signals, and I'll give you the sign to come up when the coast is clear."

Aziraphale nodded, clearly willing to let the other agent take the lead.

The blond pulled his fob watch out of his trouser pocket and tapped the top button. A light on the watch face illuminated and he nodded at Crowley. They had two minutes during which all surveillance devices in a 100-foot radius would be scrambled.

Crowley checked to make sure the guards' backs were turned and sprinted the short distance to the house. In a matter of seconds, he crossed the lawn and vaulted up to grab hold of the balcony railing, hauling his slender frame over the balustrade. As expected, he had barely gotten to his feet when the glass door swung open, revealing a guard in a grey uniform, wielding a rifle at Crowley.

The redhead sprang into action before the guard could respond, spinning on his heel to deliver a high kick to the guard's elbow, knocking the gun away, then hitting him in the jaw with a right hook.

As the man staggered, Crowley pulled him into a headlock and clamped a hand over his mouth and nose. The man went limp after a moment of struggle and Crowley checked his pulse; he was alive but unconscious. _Good enough._

Crowley came to the edge of the railing and waved at Aziraphale, who waved back and began his own spring towards the house.

Crowley was in the process of removing the unconscious soldier's belt to restrain him when he was struck with an idea.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked as he came over the edge of the veranda.

Crowley turned as he finished buttoning the guard's shirt over his own black one.

"Oh, Good Lord," Aziraphale scoffed.

"What?" he said with a shrug, sparing a glance towards the half-naked man on the floor. "We're the same size. Bloody good camouflage if you ask me."

Crowley tightened the belt around the man's wrists and shoved a sock into his mouth before picking up the man's ID and discarded gun. Aziraphale simply rolled his eyes.

"Yes, well, lead on then."

They had made it well inside the mansion, passing a dining room, a library, and three bathrooms when the trouble arose.

They had just reached a cross corridor and it was a coin-toss which direction to go.

"Shit!" Crowley spat. "Now what?"

"Perhaps we ought to split up," Aziraphale posed, more a question than a statement.

"Oh yes of course," Crowley mocked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just split up and hope we find each other again. I can see it now, 'excuse me Sir, I'm a secret agent spying on your boss's terror plot and I've lost my partner, think you could help me find him again?'"

Aziraphale shot him a dirty look. "Do you have any better ideas? Or one, single, better idea?"

Before Crowley could respond footsteps were coming down the hall. Crowley shoved Aziraphale back the way they'd come and turned to face the newcomer, brandishing his pilfered weapon.

"Easy man!" the interloper blurted, looking startled. "What are you doing in here?"

Crowley gaped for a moment as he scrambled for an excuse when the man, presumably the head of the security team spoke again. "Who are you anyway?

Crowley pounced. He didn't want to risk the sound of gunplay in the hall disrupting the meeting.

The guard's eyes went wide as he was tackled to the floor.

The two men hit the ground with a grunt. Before Crowley could incapacitate him, the officer had pulled a radio from his shirt pocket and called into it.

"I need backup! We have an intruder in a security uniform!"

Crowley clocked him in the head with the butt of the rifle and the man went silent, but the damage was done. His camouflage was blown.

From both sides of the hall, footsteps came pounding. At least four sets to Crowley's ear.

"Aziraphale, run!" he called out, jumping to his feet.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale tried to protest.

"Just go!" the redhead snapped, firing off two shots down the hall. "They haven't seen you. Find the meeting!"  
Aziraphale gave him a desperate look, biting his lower lip, then nodded and ran back the way they had come.

"Come and get me you bastards," Crowley muttered as the new guards came charging at him. He opened fire.

Crowley had taken out two guards and injured a third by the time the back-up had arrived from the second wing of the hall and outnumbered him.

Bruised and covered in blood that was only partially his own, Crowley had found himself with no sunglasses, no guns, and a left knee he was sure was sprained at best, being hauled down the hall by two burly guards, one holding each of his arms, while a third, the woman he had injured, held a rifle to his back. 

The party made an abrupt left turn through a set of heavy, wooden double doors into a lavish office. The room was enormous, at least two stories high, and ostentatiously decorated with suits of armor flanking the doors and ornately carved bookcases smattered around the room. There were floor to ceiling windows on one wall behind a large mahogany desk where Dagon, a tall pale figure with stringy, almost wet-looking, brown hair and a pointed nose sat hunched across from a woman who could only be 'Red.' She was a striking figure with an attractive but harsh face and long hair almost as red as Crowley's.

Across the room from the conspiring criminals, was the room's most striking feature which momentarily distracted Crowley from his targets: stretching three-quarters of the way up the wall and running the length of the room was a massive fish tank filled with gorgeous coral structures and no less than three large sharks. Next to the tank on the far side of the room, a thin spiral staircase ascended to a metal catwalk over the crystal-clear water.

"Well, well," Dagon snarled, revealing a smirk of sharp looking, perfect teeth. "Looks like we have company Carmine."

"Thanks for the directions, guys," Crowley quipped through his split lip. "I got it from here."

He was answered with a swift elbow to the ribs.

"Sorry to interrupt, Boss," the guard on Crowley's right said. "He attacked Samm in the hall and he's got Seth's ID badge. I sent a couple of boys to check the veranda."

Dagon nodded and Crowley felt a spike of panic for Aziraphale.

"Thank you, Mr. Yama," Dagon replied coolly, before nodding to the woman holding the gun to Crowley's back. "Lilith, go clean yourself up,"

Crowley felt the rifle retreat before Dagon addressed him directly.

"So, do I get the pleasure of knowing the name of the intruder in my home?"

"I know who he is," Red chimed in. She sounded vaguely Eastern European, but her accent was impossible to place. "British accent, red hair, golden eyes, and a scar on his right temple[4]... He's Anthony Crowley of MI6. An associate of mine had the displeasure of running across him once. Mr. Crowley here put quite a crimp in his plans."

"I'm sure the pleasure was all mine," Crowley shot back. "Though I feel at a disadvantage. You know me, but I don't know you."

"Carmine Zuigiber," the woman said with a grin that looked nearly venomous. "You may have heard of me by my other name The Horseman of War, not that I expect you'll have need to know that information for long."

Crowley flinched. He'd heard reports of this person, but he never expected she was who Dagon was meeting with. This situation was more serious than even Aziraphale had realized.

"Indeed," Dagon interrupted his train of thought, flashing their frightening smile once again. "Carmine, why don't you finish telling me about your merchandise and then I can show you how we feed the fish."

"I'd love to," the arms dealer said, producing a small plastic tube from the pocket of her red leather jacket and placing it on the desk in front of Dagon. "In that canister are the detonator codes. Even I don't know them, and if you try to open them within the next six hours, a time bomb inside will destroy them, and you'll have wasted money on a dirty bomb you can't use."

Crowley felt his entire body go rigid. _What would an environmentalist want with a dirty bomb?_

Without thinking, he began to writhe against his captors, bringing his injured leg down as hard as he could manage on one's foot while wrenching his shoulder away from the other, managing to connect his elbow with the man's side.

He freed himself only a step when two more men he hadn't noticed before emerged from a shadowy corner of the room, guns drawn. Both were wearing leather jackets similar to Red's, one black and one white and Crowley assumed they must be the owners of the other two motorcycles outside.

The man in white had olive skin pockmarked with a combination of scars and blisters and cropped gray hair with a matching beard. The rider in black still wore their helmet and Crowley vaguely wondered what they must look like if the disfiguration on the other had not inspired him to keep his helmet on, but this person had chosen to continue hiding their face.

Crowley stilled and Dagon cackled.

"Nice try, Mr. Crowley," they said, rising from the uncomfortable looking desk chair and slipping the canister into the breast pocket of their grey blazer. "Carmine, if you and your associates would be so kind as to assist me, I think my babies need their next snack sooner rather than later."

"Of course," she purred, gesturing to the two, armed men. "Señor Corona, Monsieur Azrael, make sure Mr. Crowley doesn't get any ideas."

“WITH PLEASURE,” the figure in the helmet said in a deep, rasping voice, before he and his companion advanced.

Dagon grabbed Crowley by the front of his stolen shirt and nodded towards the staircase.

"Yama, fetch the life vest," they ordered. "Mormo, prepare the hook."

The two guards scattered, the larger of the two darting up the metal stairs with a clatter while the other made his way to a panel of light switches near its base.

Crowley heard a whir and a loud clattering overhead as a winch he had not noticed before came to life in the ceiling above the tank and moved swiftly along a metal track towards the main part of the room.

As they both watched the machinery move, Dagon dragged Crowley with the aid of the two gunmen towards the base of the staircase.

When the mechanism was in position, Mormo flipped another switch and the winch began to lower. As it came closer, Crowley could see it was affixed with a large hook.

He began to fight again, squirming as best he could on his unharmed leg and pushing and clawing with both hands against Dagon's chest.

The shark expert's grip never loosed until he heard another banging set of footsteps from the stairs.

Yama had returned carrying what did indeed look like a slim black life vest.

Dagon released his shirt and he fisted his hand in theirs. He needed a way out and he was struggling to see one. 

Crowley was kicked hard in the bad knee and flinched, giving Dagon the opportunity they needed to pull free. Crowley instinctively stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets but this bought him little time. Yama forced his hands up and Dagon pulled the harness' sleeves over his arms, fastening the device's buckles behind his back and sliding the hook through a metal ring attached to the garment half-way up the back.

Mormo received another nod from his boss and flipped another switch. The winch hoisted Crowley's feet a few inches off the ground.

"You see Carmine," Dagon said matter-of-factly. "The trick is to use live bait, and not to restrain them too much. The flailing limbs are the perfect dinner bell and remind them of hunting in their natural habitat."

"So if I don't move, does that spoil their appetites?" Crowley asked, unable to keep his snide comments to himself.

"They really aren't picky," Dagon answered, assessing his blood-stained clothes. "I imagine you'll smell good enough that it won't matter."

With that, they headed back towards their desk with Corona and Azrael in tow, guns lowered now, and Mormo flipped the switch back up.

Crowley felt himself being hoisted slowly upwards and wondered if Aziraphale was still in the building, obviously he hadn’t found the terrorists, but maybe he had gotten away to call backup. _Not like they’ll be likely to get here in time._

"While we're waiting for the show to start, may I continue?" Red asked, kicking her feet up on the desk.

"By all means," Dagon answered.

Zuigiber produced a folder from a satchel on the floor and passed it over the desk.

"The photos," she said. "As we discussed, the bomb itself has enough power to level any structure it's in and would likely kill anyone in a half-mile radius instantly, but if I'm not mistaken your interest in is the fallout."

Dagon nodded. Their excitement was palpable.

Red continued. "The bomb is loaded with nuclear material from a decommissioned Soviet arms plant, enough to contaminate over 100 square miles of land for a decade, and all the oil that might have to move through it."

Dagon looked at her inquisitively.

"I never told you," they growled.

"And you shouldn't," Red cut them off. "But I'm not stupid. I need deniability, which is why you won't set the timer until I'm out of the country, but I know your cause and I know my pilot is making the delivery to your man in Riyadh. The math isn't hard."

Even in his desperate predicament, Crowley's mind boggled. Nuclear contamination of a major Saudi Arabian oil field would not just cripple any company that owned oil rights there but the whole energy industry. It would destabilize the economy overnight. It was absolute madness!

Suddenly the harness around his torso jerked to the side and he moved over the open water of the tank. His blood ran cold. At least he will have slowed them down, he thought grimly.

"Speaking of your pilot," Dagon continued.

"Yes," Red grinned. "If you find everything to your satisfaction, I'll give the signal to him to take off as soon as you give me my money and the coordinates."

Dagon nodded and reached beneath the desk, producing a canvas duffle bag and a slip of paper. Red glanced through it and Crowley noted with interest that he had stopped moving. Apparently, they wanted to give this their full attention, a horrible part of his stomach twinged at the thought. Waiting as he heard the sharks churning the water below him, hoping against hope for a miracle might be worse than just being dropped instantly into the feeding frenzy.

Across the room Red nodded, then produced a bulky satellite phone from her satchel. She dialed a number and spoke briefly into it.

"Payment secure. You're clear for takeoff," she said before rattling off a series of numbers Crowley was too busy panicking to remember.

Red hung up the phone. "When my helicopter arrives, your man will call you and you can open the canister. Give him the code and he will be able to set the detonation timer."

"Very well," Dagon said. "It's been nice doing business with you."

Their attention then turned from Red to Mormo. They nodded, but before Mormo could throw the final switch, a bang and a mighty crash erupted from the side of the room.

Crowley's head swiveled as fast as the terrorists’ towards the noise. The grate of an air vent above a bookshelf had blown open and Aziraphale came tumbling out, landing gracelessly on the floor, gun drawn.

"No one move!" he shouted imperiously, and for a moment no one did as they all seemed too shocked to have found themselves suddenly staring down the dust-covered agent.

The door to the room opened again, breaking the spell of confusion and Lilith limped back in, clearly drawn by the noise, a bandage now wrapped around her bleeding leg. Her rifle was drawn, and it didn’t take her long to identify the intruder and level it at him.

"Aziraphale look out!" Crowley called.

Aziraphale spun to face the woman and pulled the trigger. She dropped to the floor and Yama threw himself at Aziraphale from behind. Aziraphale dodged the attack but tripped over the prone form of Lilith as Azrael and Corona opened fire. A case full of salvaged shipwreck artifacts exploded in a shower of glass. Aziraphale's pistol flew out of his hand and was snatched from the floor by Yama as the blond crashed into a suit of armor.

Crowley, seeing that Mormo had abandoned his position by the switchboard to join the fray, began to flail his body wildly, deciding to take the chance that he could swim to the edge of the tank and escape now that the cavalry had arrived. _Maybe, just maybe, we can both get out of here alive._ But the hook held steady to his harness.

Yama stepped closer to Aziraphale, who seemed slightly dazed by his fall. He leveled the stolen pistol at the blond, and suddenly the agent no longer looked lost.

In a movement so quick and so fluid Crowley almost missed it Aziraphale was on his feet, the suit of armor's gold-hilted broadsword grasped firmly in his hand.

Yama was dead on the floor before anyone realized what had happened.

Another hail of bullets burst from the bikers' guns and Aziraphale threw himself to the ground, rolling out of harm's way, and regaining his feet as if it were nothing.

Another guard charged into the room, drawn by the commotion and was run through before he could react to the scene before him.

Now Aziraphale was advancing as the bikers reloaded their weapons.

Mormo had drawn a pistol but before he could fire, Aziraphale had snatched a marble bookend off the nearest shelf and hurled it at the man's head. The time it took him to dodge cost him his life.

Crowley, still struggling against his bonds, was enraptured. It was like watching a master ballet dancer move through a recital. All thoughts of Aziraphale as clumsy or soft were shattered as he watched the blond whirl around the room like a tornado of destruction. It was like he was born to wield a sword.

As yet another guard hit the floor, Red's somewhat amused look grew serious and the arms dealer rose to her feet.

Aziraphale was now fighting Corona, who had run out of ammunition and was wielding the suit of armor's shield with one hand and had pulled what Crowley guessed was a poison dart out of a pouch on his belt with the other.

As Aziraphale swung gracefully out of reach yet again, the sword crashed down heavily once more on the shield. Behind them, Red crept along the side of the wall, followed closely by Azrael, but instead of heading for the door, as Crowley expected, the red-haired woman made a swift move and pulled the sword free of the second suit of armor. She instantly began to wield it with the same easy strength as Aziraphale. In a second, she was behind the blond.

"Behind you!" Crowley yelled as loudly as he could, hoping his partner would react fast enough as the arms dealer lunged towards him.

Aziraphale ducked and swept his leg out, knocking Corona off balance.

Red jumped back to avoid the swing of her henchman's poisonous weapon and Aziraphale had the opening he needed to get back to his feet and bring the sword down on the other man's arm, his hand and the poison hitting the floor. Aziraphale grabbed the dart and drove it into its owner's neck and the rider crumbled to the floor.

Now it was just Aziraphale and Carmine fighting mono ȧ mono. Crowley looked around desperately for Dagon but there was no sign of the terrorist who he'd last seen diving behind their desk when the gunfire started.

Azrael had apparently retreated when his fellow biker had fallen.

Zuibiger was an excellent swordswoman. The pair sparred in what Crowley suspected was better form than the knight's whose swords they were wielding could have managed.

As they fought, they circled the room, drawing closer and closer to the shark tank.

Crowley couldn't take his eyes off the scene below him, his plan to jump for the water momentarily forgotten. More than once he had to gasp desperately for air, having forgotten to even breathe as he watched his fellow agent fight, his face set with all the righteous fury of an avenging angel.[5]

Aziraphale lunged and Red leapt back to the first of the stairs. She had the high ground now, but she was being driven backwards up the spiraling steps to a dead end. The woman seemed to realize her error and grew frantic in her attacks. Aziraphale ducked left and right, pushing her further up and back towards the top of the tank with each thrust of his sword.

Red's boot slipped off one narrow, metal stair at a particularly aggressive thrust from the blond and he seized on her mistake, slashing her across the arm causing the woman to yelp in pain, her jacket torn and her sword clattering through the open steps to the ground below.

Aziraphale drew back his blade, a silent offer to let the unarmed woman surrender. She stared over his shoulder and grinned viciously.

"Say goodbye to your friend," she hissed.

An alarm began buzzing from the catwalk and Crowley had only enough time to see Dagon standing before the hook's smashed control panel, a cannonball from the shattered salvage cabinet in hand, before he felt himself plummet.

He hit the water with a splash and a feeling like the stopping of a noose. The rope was just long enough to submerge him to the shoulders but not long enough to give him leverage to lift the vest's ring off the hook.

As he hit the water, he heard Aziraphale shout his name. Wrenching his eyes from the ominous dorsal fin approaching from the corner of the tank, he saw Aziraphale launch himself into action, throwing his sword like a boomerang over the tank and charging Zuigiber with the full force of his body. The blade whistled through the air, spinning 360 degrees twice before finding its target and slicing through the rope suspending him in the tank.

Crowley plunged fully into the cold water just as Aziraphale threw Red over the railing of the stairs and she tumbled through the air to the floor.

Crowley's eyes burned against the sting of the salt water and his heart pounded in his chest as they adjusted to make out the blurred, toothy shape of a shark's hungry mouth. Instinctively, he flailed, trying desperately to reach the surface as he kicked at the monstrous fish's gills. He made contact and it reared back as the second shark approached. Before it could close its powerful jaws around his limp leg, he felt himself being pulled as if by magic through the water towards the side of the tank.

His head broke the surface and Crowley was dumbfounded to see Aziraphale crouched on the edge of the catwalk, his right hand clenched in a fist and submerged in the water. His face was a picture of terrified focus.

"Swim, Dear Boy!" he shouted. "I can only pull you so fast."

Crowley did not need to be told twice. He could feel the shark's nose bump against his foot as he paddled towards safety, his injured leg slowing his progress.

Soon his hand found Aziraphale's in the water and the blond was pulling him from the tank as his feet scrabbled for purchase against the slick glass wall.

There was a sound like a roar as water was displaced behind him and the shark breached, snapping at his leg.

Crowley felt the edges of razor-sharp teeth tear the leg of his trousers and scrape across his skin as Aziraphale threw himself backwards with all his strength and hauled him out of the water. 

Crowley lay on the catwalk bleeding and gasping for air as Aziraphale scrambled to his feet and peered over the railing towards the stairs.

"Damn!" he shouted. "They're both gone!" He hurried to Crowley's side and pulled him to a sitting position. Crowley startled as his partner wrapped his sturdy arms around him until he realized the other man was unfastening the horrible harness from his body.

"Crowley? Are you alright? Can you walk? We need to go! They've gotten away and we only have a few hours until that bomb contaminates half the Middle East's oil supply!"

The blond was fretting something terrible as Crowley patted down his own legs and struggled to find words though shaky breaths.

"M'fine, 'Ziraphale, 's fine. Jus' need a minute."

"I'm glad you're alright, Dear Boy, but it's most certainly not fine. Dagon and that woman got away."

"Let 'em," Crowley slurred as he stuffed a hand into the tight pocket of his wet trousers. "They're not settin' off that bomb."

He pulled his hand free and produced the detonation code canister.

Aziraphale stared at him in shock.

"Crowley?" He gasped. "When did you? How did you?"

"Nicked it off Dagon when they were strapping me into this kit," he laughed. "Figured at least if worst came to worst the sharks would eat it with me and slow 'em down."

Aziraphale stared at him in awe, his blue eyes blown wide. "You brilliant, wily fiend!" he shouted, pulling him into an actual hug. "That's amazing!"

"Not as amazing as that swordplay," Crowley deflected. He had felt the start of an inexplicable blush up his face and needed the praise to stop at once. "Where did you learn to do that?" And how did you get me out of the water?"

"I was on the fencing team at Oxford," Aziraphale said with a shrug as he released Crowley from the embrace. “I studied other techniques on the side. Once you learn, you never forget. As for the rescue, I'm afraid I owe that one to Q Branch." He brandished his gold pinky ring and explained. "When you twist the wings the right way it becomes a powerful electromagnet."

"Well you may owe Pulsifer, but I owe you," Crowley said earnestly. "Thanks, Aziraphale."

It was the blond's turn to look nervous. "Think nothing of it," he said modestly, "Though speaking of Q Branch I think it best we get out of here and get that back to headquarters," he said with a nod to the canister. 

\---------------------------------------------

_ Present Day _

"With the evidence we gathered, Dagon and their accomplice in Riyadh were apprehended the next day along with the pilot, but Red and her henchmen disappeared into the wind," Crowley concluded his story.[6] "We discovered later that Zuigiber's supplier was her cousin who had worked in a Soviet weapons factory in Ukraine. The Russians lost track of a lot of materials and nukes when their empire came apart and Red and her crew picked up the pieces. She implied she had a lot of the stuff, but we've never found much of it, so it seems safe to assume that's what Gabriel and Beelzebub just bought." 

The young agents gaped at him in shock before Adam broke the silence.

"So they're going to make it look like Russia nuked a charity event with former U.S. Presidents so America will retaliate and they can finally see whose side is best?" the boy asked in apparent disbelief.

"It would appear so," Anathema answered, grimly. "Well done Crowley. At least we know what we're up against now."

"Yeah," he agreed. "The end of the world."

* * *

[1] Crowley was inclined to agree. Despite his fussy attitude, and slightly foppish mannerisms, the blond’s espionage instincts seemed impeccable.

[2] He would NOT admit he also found them a little endearing.

[3] Though Crowley was also fairly certain Aziraphale's shirt was navy not black, and was not convinced the choice wasn't made to needle him. (He had started to suspect the other agent liked getting under his skin now and then.)

[4] The faint mark was another good reason for Crowley to constantly wear sunglasses. He had hidden the long, curved evidence of a nasty childhood fall with long hair in his teens, but with his professionally necessary shorter hair it was yet another distinguishing physical characteristic.

[5] Somewhere in the back of his mind the single word _beautiful_ seemed to linger, but he was too caught up in the heart pounding moment to properly analyze that thought.

[6] He had left out some of the more personal details, but a part of him still squirmed inside at the memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! What did you think of our little side story and BAMF Aziraphale? I love the fact that Neil has mentioned that, although we don't see it in the show/book, Aziraphale has saved Crowley several times in the past. I assumed Crowley thinks about this a lot and worked an insane version of it into his dream backstory. lol! 
> 
> Fun Fact: all of Dagon's henchmen's names are actual demons from various mythologies. 
> 
> Next week we return to our adventure already in progress. Until then please leave Kudos, comments, and find me on social media at [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921).  
> And if Neil's October #AwakeTheSnake [Tumblr Post](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/630786844754362368/so-now-that-its-october-is-crowley-awake-yet) got you down yesterday, please take a minute and check out the short [sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760601) I wrote in literally two hours yesterday! I promise it'll help. 😊


	12. Quantum of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and the team start to formulate a plan to stop the bombing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So after the insanity that was the last chapter, I've got a shorter, calmer one for you today, as you may have guessed from the title. That level of crazy (dare I say it, taking it up to 11) can only be sustained so long, but don't fear, the calm before the storm will not last long.

Crowley only agreed to stay in bed until Friday morning and that was after a significant argument, Dr. Mary's vehement insistence, and a coerced promise out of Adam and Warlock to give him regular updates on the plan.

His side smarted as he took his seat in the conference room the next day, but he steadfastly tried to cover his wince. He could not show weakness.

Anathema had already implied she didn't think Crowley was physically up for the mission to which he'd scoffed.

"I'd like to see her try and stop me from London," he spat at Newt when she'd rang off the video call, throwing the engineer a vaguely threatening glare meant to imply that he was not under any circumstances to tell his lover anything Crowley didn't want him to.

Newt had gulped and nodded, seeming to get the double-six agent's message. Crowley had come this far; he wasn't sitting this out. Not when the fate of the world and the person he cared about most in it hung in the balance.

He tapped his long fingers on the table, replaying everything he knew about what they were walking into in his head and trying not to think about how even if they were successful stopping the bomb, it might still be too late for Aziraphale.

His reverie was broken when the door flew open and Shadwell marched in, followed closely by Newt, Adam, Warlock, and Pepper. There seemed to be a bit of an argument going on between them.

"I'll neigh be sendin' an injured man into the field!" Shadwell bellowed. "Tha's how we lost Dalrymple back in '04."

"In all fairness, Sir," Newt interjected, "Colonel Dalrymple was using an untested prototype weapon that backfired. His injured arm likely had nothing to do with it."

Shadwell shot the younger man a withering glare as he took a deep swig of what Crowley knew was sickeningly over-sweetened tea. As far as he could tell, no one had yet to notice his presence.

"Hi guys," he drawled with a small wave. Newt startled and Adam and Pepper chuckled.

Shadwell glowered at him over his mug. "Mr. Crowley, I dunno what's in yer head tha' ya think yer fit to go into the field but..."

"Crowley has to come!" Adam piped up, cutting of his American liaison. "We wouldn't even know what we're up against if it weren't for him. If he feels up to it, we could use all the help we can get!"

Crowley spared a small smile for his young friend. For having very limited experience, he felt like the boy understood him immensely well.

"I agree with Adam," Pepper said.

Warlock gave a nod of agreement, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly before resuming his usual impassive, bored look.

Shadwell groaned and let out an indecipherable string of curses. "Fine," he spat. "But 'e's not running lead."

Crowley smirked but put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

_We'll see about that,_ he thought. Plans had a tendency to change once agents got into the field.

A tense silence fell over the room for a few moments[1] until the door opened once again, admitting Brian, Wensleydale, and three other agents who were introduced as Smithe, Tin, and Milkbottle.[2] Wensleydale set down a laptop and clicked a few keys revealing Anathema on screen.

"Alright," she said as soon as everyone had taken their seats. "Let's get started."

Four hours later the plan was set, for better or worse. The objective was simple: find the bomb, disarm it, and take Gabriel alive. Any other conspirators, including Beelzebub or Zuigiber were to be considered expendable, but the CIA wanted Arkangel. They would need him alive to divulge any further assets and, if they were lucky, Aziraphale's location.

While the goal was simple, the operation would not be. As the team had parsed through the plan and every bit of data they had on the hotel and the gala, they realized just how little they knew. Aside from the bomb's contents they knew nothing of the attack, not where it would be planted, when it would go off, or even how many hostiles to expect on the premises.[3]

Complicating matters further was a need for secrecy; even the slightest suggestion that a rogue Russian agent was planning an attack on two former presidents would be enough to start an international incident, and without more details the foundation refused to change the plans for an event that had been in the works for six months. 

"Daft bastards said they'd look bad if they cancelled on hearsay," Shadwell had spat. "Best we could do was permission to embed agents at the event for extra security."

This then had been the formation of the plan. Six MI6 agents and four CIA operatives working in four teams to sweep the building, infiltrate the banquet, and watch the perimeter.

Back in his room at the Ritz Crowley ran down the plan again in his mind as he lay in bed, waiting for the pills Dr. Mary had given him to take effect.[4]

Four teams: Brian and Agent Tin, a sturdy looking man with a dark beard, would be embedded with security at the front door looking for anything suspicious; Warlock and agent Smithe, a tall woman with a long blonde ponytail who reminded him a bit of Aziraphale with her deceptive looking softness, would be infiltrating the banquet itself to look for Gabriel or Beelzebub while undercover as a young philanthropist couple (though Crowley and Anathema doubted the ex-KGB agent would be making an appearance); Newt and Wensleydale would run communications and watch the service entrance in the back from a surveillance van; and finally, Crowley, Adam, Pepper and Agent Milkbottle, a sour faced man in his thirties with skin so white he truly lived up to his strange moniker, were to leave the hotel room the moment the banquet hall doors opened and begin sweeping the building for the bomb.

Logistically, they knew the bomb would need to be sneaked in after the party began. The Secret Service would be sweeping everything in the building and its neighbors in the hours leading up to the event, so there was no way it would escape detection if it was there too early. Even going up to his hotel room, Crowley had had to walk through metal detectors tonight.

Crowley took a breath. At least they were sure of something. The bomb would enter the building tomorrow evening. During the morning, Adam, Milkbottle, and Pepper would come up to join him and they would map out their sweep one last time. They'd each been outfitted with a Geiger counter disguised as a mobile phone by Newt, who had also provided Crowley with a new pair of sunglasses.

_"That's a new record I think," the Quartermaster had quipped at him, as he handed him the new pair. "You know these cost over £300 a pair, I can't just make a million of them for you to keep in the glove box."_

Said single pair of sunglasses was now sitting on the nightstand next to Aziraphale's trick bible and his old, blood-stained tie as Crowley began to feel his eyelids growing heavy.

"It's going to work," he muttered to himself. "It has to work... Don't worry, Angel... Wherever you are, I'll find you..."

* * *

[1] Which Crowley judiciously decided not to fill with continued table tapping.

[2] Whether the latter of these was a nickname or an unfortunate surname Crowley was not sure, but he thought better of asking.

[3] While everyone agreed Crowley eliminating Ligur was probably a point in their favor, no one was foolish enough to think Beelzebub and Arkangel were limited to the three accomplices the team had already come across.

[4] The only way she had signed off on his release for the operation was an agreement that he 'rest up' extensively. Crowley assumed those instructions were open to interpretation and as such had washed his medication down with a glass of scotch in order to more effectively settle his nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We're heading into some action intense material in the next few chapters, so stay tuned. If you're enjoying, I have absolutely loved reading your comments on the last few chapters so keep them and the kudos coming! :) 
> 
> For clarification if anyone is wondering: yes, this is the fourth time a "Smith" has shown up. Yes, they are all spelled different. No none of them are the same person (one was Crowley's alias, and the other three are all different CIA agents), this is a play on the Witchfinder Army's list of members who Shadwell made up.
> 
> Also I in no way endorse taking pain pills with scotch! Crowley and James Bond though are both incredibly irresponsible drinkers. 
> 
> As always you can find me on social media for updates or comments at [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921).
> 
> Hope you all have good weeks!


	13. Anthony Crowley and the Bombing Before Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gala has begun and so has the hunt for the bomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, welcome, welcome! We have officially entered the final act of Crowley's dream. It's pretty much full-steam ahead from this point out. I would like to put a disclaimer out before this chapter begins that I have never been to New York, let alone the Ritz Carlton, so if you have, please don't hold my factual inaccuracies against me. I did do some research and know that there is a ballroom on the second floor, everything else Crowley dreamed up to make a good action scene... probably a bit of an amalgam of the hundreds of hotels and restaurants he's been in through the centuries. 
> 
> CW: Action movie violence. Some blood and deaths within a dream are ahead.

Crowley straightened his tie in the bathroom mirror. He had to admit, Mr. Sable had done a fantastic job. Adam had picked up the tuxedo for him that morning and brought it over when he and the others arrived for their strategy session. Had he had any other formal wear with him he would not have chosen to wear this into the field, but he had packed in a hurry and he needed to blend in with the party goers.

That was his cover for their sweep, a wealthy charity donor. Adam was a waiter. Pepper was wearing a security guards' uniform and Milkbottle was dressed as a business-casual hotel guest in a dress shirt and trousers. The goal was to allow at least one of them to enter any area of the hotel without raising suspicion as they searched for the bomb.

Crowley took one last deep breath and rejoined the group in the main room. The gala started at 7 and the final security check would be completed at 6:30, at which point they would be on the clock. They had 15 minutes until it was time to move.

Crowley looked around at his team, although they all looked composed, there was an undeniable tension in the air. This was the proverbial calm before the storm. Crowley had been on high-stakes missions before, but few with consequences this drastic. Failure meant the end of the world as they all knew it.

He didn't know much of Milkbottle's background aside from being a former Major in the Army, but his age and stern countenance suggested to Crowley he'd seen his fair share of danger. He knew Adam and Pepper were still green though. Had anyone known exactly what they'd been heading into Crowley knew Anathema wouldn't have put them on this assignment.

The four agents stared at one another a moment longer before Milkbottle spoke. He'd technically been put in charge of the search team to appease Shadwell about a repeat of the "Dalrymple incident.[1]"

"Alright men," he said. His voice was authoritative but otherwise utterly indistinct, his lack of discernible accent nearly alarming. "We don't know when the package will enter the premises, but we do know our most likely targets."

Milkbottle tapped the end of his pencil against the building schematic laying out on the table. "The kitchen. The laundry room. The empty fifth floor conference room."

Crowley nodded with each definitive strike of the pencil. They'd been over this three times already and he had his personal suspicions about which locations were most likely of these candidates, but he kept his opinion to himself. He'd have his chance to test his theory after the initial sweep when the gala started and they would all split up.

"Crowley!" Milkbottle barked at him, breaking him from his private thoughts. The man looked somewhere between annoyed and concerned. "I said, is that clear?"

"Transparently, Sir," he said with as cocky a smirk as he could manage.

Adam snickered and covered it with a poorly feigned cough.

"Alright," the CIA agent said with finality. "Let's move out."

\--------------------------------------------

It came as a surprise to no one that they found nothing on their first sweep through the building.

"I told you they'll sneak it in at the last minute," Crowley drawled as the team regrouped in the basement boiler room.

"We'll probably have less than ninety minutes to find it once it gets here. I know Beelzebub; she'll make sure they have as little time as possible to be discovered."

Static crackled in Crowley's ear and Newt's voice spoke to him through his Sunglasses.

"The presidents have arrived," he reported. "Nothing else suspicious on Brian and Tin's end."

"Copy that," Milkbottle answered. He was wearing a similar pair of glasses to Crowley, though his were built to resemble reading glasses instead of the tinted shades the redhead wore. "How are things in the ballroom?"

"Warlock has eyes on Gabriel. He’s hob-knobbing with a couple of the guests, but there’s no sign of Beelzebub or Hastur," Wensleydale answered. "That big guy from the tailor's shop with the gold teeth is with him though, and he is **not** trying to blend in. Smithe said he’s wearing a bowler hat of all things.”

Adam snickered. “As if he needed to look **more** unapproachable…”

"Hold on, hold on," Newt's voice interrupted. "There's a van pulling up by the service entrance back here..."

"What kind of van?" Crowley asked before Milkbottle had a chance.

"Looks like a plumbing company," Newt answered. "I'm searching the name now... They appear legit on the surface... Maybe one of the guest rooms had an issue."

"Keep an eye on it," Milkbottle said before Wensleydale interrupted again.

"Something's going on!" he said, sounding alarmed. "Warlock says there's a commotion in the ballroom."

"Alright, we're patching you all through to the same line," Newt interjected before the voices in Crowley's ear multiplied. "Someone from the bomb crew get upstairs!"

Adam and Crowley sprinted for the stairs as Warlock started talking rapidly in their earpieces.

"They're saying there's a gun!" he reported. "I can't see much. Security is swarming someone and I can just hear their voices."

"What can you see?" Adam asked.

"It looks like a man they're surrounding," Smithe answered. "He's shouting something about complaining to the police and the newspaper."

"Wait, wait, wait! I've got a visual!" Warlock said. "He's on the ground now. It looks like an older guy with short gray hair and a beard. I saw him talking to Gabriel earlier."

"Shit!" Crowley snapped, skidding to a stop in his tracks as Adam continued up towards the ballroom. "Where is Gabriel?"

"He's by one of the security guards," Smithe answered. "Looks like he's yelling a lot and pointing. He might've been the one to report this."

"Any sign of his man?" Crowley asked, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.

"No," the woman answered, the dead tone in her voice told him she understood his dread.

"This might be a bad time, but three people in overalls have gotten out of that plumbing van and the service door just opened for them," Newt's voice piped in nervously.

"Fuck!" Crowley spat, turning on his heels towards the back of the hotel. "Milkbottle!"

"I'm on my way!" the American agent barked.

"I'll meet you there," Crowley answered, attempting to tune out the racket in his ears. This was it. He could feel it.

"Guys what's going on?" Tin whispered, he sounded worried. "We've stopped letting people in and they're starting to panic out here."

"They've got the old guy in cuffs," Warlock supplied. "Looks like he had one of those 3D-printed guns on him. He's still shouting a lot. Threatening to sue now."

"Gabriel probably planted it on him," Pepper chimed in. "I'm heading to the ballroom. If security is handling him, they'll be short-handed."

"Crowley? Where are you?" Milkbottle's voice asked. "I'm almost at the..."

A round of gunshots rang out and the chatter on the line went silent.

Crowley heard the shots echo on the line and down the hall. They'd obviously been suppressed, but they were close enough for him to hear. They had come from the direction of the service door.

"Fuck!" He redoubled his speed, drawing his gun and doing his best to ignore the dull ache in his side.

"Who's hit?" Newt's voice called out. "Check in!"

"'m here," Crowley answered. He didn't need to listen to the rest of the roll-call. He knew who was down.

Crowley rounded the corner and took in the scene before him. There was blood. Milkbottle was lying slumped against the wall; his gun was on the ground next to him, a bullet hole in the opposite wall. He'd gotten at least one shot off before he went down then.

Crowley dropped to his knees to check the bleeding man's pulse. He was still breathing, but barely, and blood was pouring from a wound at his throat. The fallen agent's eyes fluttered as Crowley attempted to staunch the bleeding with his pocket square.

Milkbottle let out a wheezing breath and Crowley shushed him. "Ssshhh... Save your strength, Major," Crowley whispered softly.

The man grunted what might have been a laugh and wheezed again, twitching his left hand towards the hallway. "That way," he groaned. "Three of them. Go..."

His eyes fluttered shut again and Crowley felt his stomach lurch knowing they would not reopen.

"Man down, team," he said somberly into his sunglasses. "We've lost Milkbottle." Crowley allowed for a moment of silence before clambering to his feet. "I'm going after them. They're heading east from the back service corridor. There's three of them. Might be heading towards the kitchen."

"I'll be right there," Adam answered. His voice was sad and sounded almost childlike.

The pain in Crowley's side had been drowned out by adrenaline again. He had a man down and a in the building. The Geiger counter on his mobile phone had started beeping as he ran down the hall and the beat of it was steadily increasing as he headed in the direction Milkbottle had indicated.

Several metres down the passage Crowley noticed a door ajar and peeked in. The space was little more than a janitor's closet but inside he spotted three abandoned sets of workmen's overalls, a baseball cap, and an empty toolbox. _Shit!_

"Heads up everybody," he said. "Our plumbers are the culprits and they could be anyone now. They've swapped uniforms."

"Damn!" Smithe shouted.

"Alright," Newt replied. "Based on what we saw, you're looking for two women and a man. One of the women was black with very short hair, the other was white with kind of a poof of brown hair, and the guy was almost albino. He was wearing a hat but he looked pretty disheveled."

"Hastur..." Crowley snarled as he checked the hall before venturing back out. "Don't know who the other two are, but at least one of them is a good shot."

"No sign of anyone like that up here," Warlock reported. "But they hauled that guy out and are trying to put things back on track."

"They're literally trying the old 'nothing to see here folks' game," Pepper added and Crowley could practically see her eyes rolling.

"Sounds like the presidents are finally going to make their entrance," Smithe said. "And Mr. Goldteeth is back."

"Keep an eye on him," Newt answered. "Crowley, Adam what're your positions?"

"I'm heading over to the restaurant," Adam reported. "If I don't see them there, I'll slip through the kitchen and meet you in the service hall."

"Roger that," Crowley answered. "I'm heading back into the hall. I'll meet you by the back kitchen entrance."

To his left the hall turned towards the lobby. The Geiger counter had started beeping rapidly and he silenced it. They were close. If the terrorists hadn't slipped into the kitchen there was only one way they could have gone and either Adam or Brian would spot them for sure.

Crowley peered through the small porthole-like window in the doors and saw at least 20 people dashing around in white coats and aprons.

_At least it's too crazy in there to plant a bomb,_ he thought. The racket from the rest of the team had momentarily quieted and he switched off the earpiece, taking a moment to slump against the wall as he waited for Adam. His side ached and he thought guiltily about Milkbottle for a moment before his thoughts drifted inevitably to Aziraphale.

His angel's face appeared in his mind, smiling at him over a glass of wine, his silly tartan bowtie slightly askew and his gray-blue eyes sparkling. _All this time and I never told him,_ he thought. _I wouldn't have ever got this far without him... If we make it out of this I swear..."_

His reverie was broken by the sound of an abrasive shouting from the kitchen.

"Alright everyone! I'm Agent LaVista, this is Agent Uriel, we're with the Secret Service. A guest upstairs has been apprehended with a gun and we have reason to believe it was sneaked in through the kitchen. Everyone step into the restaurant immediately for a security check!"

Crowley peered back into the kitchen as chefs began protesting and a number of waiters gave alarmed shouts. He saw two figures in suits, one a black woman with a gold-toned tattoo on her cheek and jaw, the other he recognized immediately as Hastur. The pair proceeded to herd the staff out the main kitchen door, leaving the room in a state of disarray. Hastur gave the woman, Uriel presumably, a curt nod as he followed the frightened and frustrated kitchen staff out the door and she began stalking round the room.

"Clear!" Uriel announced. Immediately, the door to a walk-in refrigerator swung open and a stern looking woman in a white chef's uniform strode out. She had pale skin, harsh features, and her curly brown hair was styled in what might reasonably be described as a 'poofy' up-do.

She had a small satchel thrown over her shoulder and from inside the fridge she pulled a dessert cart with a large layer cake at its center.

Crowley held his breath as the woman opened the bag and pulled a cylindrical device like a bank deposit canister and cake knife from the bag. A small green light flashed on the device. It was armed. It was all he needed to see.

Crowley kicked in the door and stormed into the room, leveling his gun at the bomb's carrier. "Oi!" he shouted as the two women's heads spun towards him. "Drop the knife and step away from the cake."

The woman with the bomb nodded slowly, raising her hands over her head, then gave Uriel a smirk and, faster than Crowley would have thought possible, she flicked her wrist and sent the sharp knife hurtling at him.

In the second it took him to dodge Uriel produced a gun from her breast pocket and fired two shots at him. Crowley threw himself behind a cook station as he returned fire, the bullets missing and ricocheting off a large pot, sending it and a whole hanging wrack of cookware clattering to the floor.

Crowley could hear his own heart pounding in his chest as the kitchen fell silent for a moment. He had not thought this through. From somewhere beyond the cooking station he heard a cautious footstep. They were probably going to try and surround him.

Above him he heard a splash and a sizzle as something on the stove came to a boil. An idea sprung to life in his mind.

He waited until he heard the next footsteps from his left.

If he guessed right that would be Uriel and she definitely had a gun.

_Right then,_ he thought as he leapt into action.

Jumping from his hiding place Crowley reached for the large pot on the stove and swung it with all his might, sending a shower of scalding hot soup at the woman to his left.

"Michael!" he heard Uriel's voice call from behind him. He'd guessed wrong.

Uriel opened fire. Crowley raised the pot in front of his face to deflect the first bullet, then hurled the vessel at the women and drew his own gun.

Uriel threw herself to the floor in a hail of bullets and Crowley rounded on Michael.

Her white chef's coat was dripping in red-colored liquid that Crowley wished was blood, but he knew was probably lobster bisque. More disturbingly, she was no longer holding the bomb. Instead she was wielding a cast iron skillet.

Michael charged him. He fired on her. She dodged to the side and slipped on the puddle of soup on the polished tile floor.

Crowley turned to see if he could spot the bomb when Uriel popped back up from the floor at the exact moment the door that lead to the restaurant crashed open. Crowley and Uriel turned to see Adam sprint in. He had a gun in his hands and Hastur on his heels. A chorus of screams echoed from the restaurant behind them.

"You again!" Hastur growled, as he took in Crowley.

"Sorry to disappoint," Crowley answered.

"Not at all," Hastur retorted. "I'm gonna enjoy this!"

The other man lunged at Crowley and Uriel took it as her cue to turn her focus on Adam, who had begun overturning and rifling through anything he could lay his hands on in search of the bomb.

"Adam! Cake!" Crowley called as he dodged a wild punch from Hastur.

The more Crowley evaded him, the more of a rage the blond seemed to go into. The first swing had come close enough to send his sunglasses off his face and skittering across the floor, but now he was getting sloppy.

A shot and a crash rang out from the direction of Adam and Uriel as Hastur took another lunge at Crowley, who dodged and nimbly stuck one of his long legs out to trip the man as he flew past.

Hastur landed in a graceless sprawl against the door to the restaurant and Crowley heard another brief outburst of screaming from the assembled staff.

Across the room Crowley saw Adam and Uriel circling each other. Adam's gun was drawn and while Uriel's appeared to have been knocked away she was now clutching a large knife and what appeared to be a meat tenderizer.

He didn't have time to worry about that. Adam could handle himself. Crowley turned to where Michael had fallen and realized she was nowhere in sight. He started back towards the cake cart when he was tackled from behind, a belt tightening around his throat.

"This is for Ligur," Hastur snarled, his rancid breath hot against Crowley's ear.

Crowley thrashed as he felt his lungs struggle to find air. His eyes bulged as he saw Uriel throw the meat tenderizer at Adam. The boy fell to the floor as he ducked, probably slipping on more soup, and the woman took the opportunity to run.

As he followed her path, he saw in the corner of his eye the open flame he had snatched the soup pot from and made a decision. He pitched forward allowing himself to go slightly limp in Hastur's grip, then threw his body backwards into the other man with all the strength his oxygen-starved body could muster.

The pair stumbled backwards and Crowley twisted, knocking Hastur to the side so he fell onto the burner and his suit jacket caught fire.

Hastur howled in pain, releasing Crowley from his grip and dropping to the floor.

Across the room Crowley saw the doors of a previously unnoticed lift open along the back wall. Uriel was holding the door open and Michael was currently pulling two dessert carts, including the layer cake, into the waiting car. 

"Bomb's in the lift! Go!" Crowley shouted at Adam, who was staggering to his feet. The boy darted for the door as the lift shut.

Crowley turned back to Hastur on the floor, leveled his gun at his back and fired. Hastur stopped writhing as his jacket continued to smolder.

"And that's for Major Milkbottle," he gasped.

Crowley sprinted to the lift, grabbing his sunglasses up from the floor as he went. He was able to take just a moment to catch his breath as he waited for the lift to return.

"Come in Newt!" he called into his glasses as the doors slid back open and he stepped inside.

"Crowley?" What happened? Is everything alright? It sounded like a warzone!" Wensleydale answered.

"I'm alright. Hastur is down, but we're alive," he panted. "The bomb is with the woman dressed as a chef."

"A chef?" Crowley heard Wensleydale parrot in his ear, before the lift doors reopened and he found himself surrounded by bedlam.

* * *

[1] A story Crowley still did not know all the details of but from what he’d ascertained from Newt involved an experimental hand-held canon of some sort, a ring of drug smugglers, and a brick… Crowley still had many questions, but they’d have to wait for now. Maybe after this was all over and he was back in London, he’d persuade Tracy to let him take another quick, clandestine rummage through the old mission archives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yeah okay, sorry it's another cliffhanger. It was unavoidable. Technically it could have been a smaller cliffhanger but then I'd have have this chapter at over 4,000 words and the next one under 1,000 and it still would have had loose ends so for pacing purposes, I'm afraid I have to drive you all crazy for a couple days. *Villainous laugh* Now let us all have a moment of silence for Agent Milkbottle. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Please feel free to yell at me about the cliffhanger in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921) unless you would rather reward my torturing of the audience with Kudos, which I would also gladly accept. :) 
> 
> Enjoy your weekends!


	14. Live and Let Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos ensues at the gala and Gabriel is on the run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the exciting conclusion of the shit-show at the gala! Hope the wait wasn't too bad. 
> 
> TW: Once again trigger warnings for action movie violence and blood.
> 
> My previous disclaimer about having never been to New York City stands. If it was obvious, I apologize. If it wasn't, then a big thanks goes to Google Maps.

Crowley heard guests screaming and saw tables overturned as he stepped out of the lift into the ballroom. As he started to scan the room for the lethal dessert cart, Warlock and Tin darted past him with two men he recognized as the former presidents being pulled between them. A bowler hat came flying across the room at high speeds towards them and Warlock had to tackle one of the men to the floor to avoid it as it zoomed over their heads and embedded in the wall behind them.

A great crash from the opposite side of the room distracted Crowley from tracing the hat’s owner as a famous tech CEO tripped over a woman’s discarded stiletto and collided with a table stacked with Champaign bottles.

"What happened?!" Crowley demanded into his earpiece as he stormed into the chaos.

"Adam got ambushed when he came in and tried to tackle the desert cart," Newt said. "Smithe said a chef accused him of having a gun. It must have been the one you saw. Security tackled him and when she went to help him all Hell broke loose."

Crowley didn't answer. He'd spotted one of the carts. It was overturned and Brian was tearing through its contents dissecting each plate of pastry for any sign of the weapon, obviously he and the others had realized what Adam was after.

Crowley heard a shriek behind him and saw Smithe grappling with Uriel, who had a handful of the agent's blonde curls.

He started towards the women to assist and was forced to duck as the leg of a chair flew past his head.

Spinning to look for its source he noticed Pepper wielding a second chair leg like a club, charging hard at Michael.

There was another yelp of pain from the side and Crowley saw Smithe had turned the tables on Uriel, driving her elbow hard into the other woman's abdomen.

The two tumbled, knocking over another pair of chairs, and sending china and glass shattering across the floor, as Uriel tried to catch herself and ripped a tablecloth from its place in the process.

Through the insanity, Crowley spotted Adam just as he was punched in the face by Gabriel's gold-toothed henchman and staggered backwards. The pair were fighting not three metres away from the cake cart.

Crowley snarled and charged towards the fray. That bastard had taken his best friend out of the game; he wasn't going to hurt Adam too.

Crowley drew his gun and pulled the trigger but was answered with a sickening click. Out of bullets.

_Fuck!_ Crowley thought. He hurled the gun at the big man before he could close in on Adam, striking him in the shoulder.

The thug turned with a sadistic gold grin. "Well, look who's here," he said. His quip was cut off when Crowley leapt, taking the larger man utterly by surprise with a rugby tackle.

Crowley realized he had greatly underestimated his own momentum as he and the goon careened across the room into the cake cart. Crowley grimaced as the stocky man beneath him made impact with the towering confection and the surrounding room was splattered with crumbs and butter-cream frosting but took advantage of his opponent's shock and punched him hard in the nose. Blood joined the chocolate on the floor as Crowley heard a clattering noise. He turned and saw the canister he'd seen Michael with earlier lying just out of reach in a lump of cake on the floor. It appeared to have been kicked by another fleeing party goer.

"Adam! The bomb!" he yelled, right before the man he was pinning to the floor bucked up and head-butted him in the side of the face. As Crowley reeled from the impact, he heard a static crackle in his ear that suggested his radio had just been broken.

Adam scrambled towards the device and Crowley could hear him calling for Newt on his own radio.

He returned his attention to Gabriel's thug, slamming his head back down to the marble floor.

"Where is he?" Crowley growled. A shrill alarm started and Crowley was aware of water pouring down on his head.

Across the room a battered looking Smithe stood over Uriel's limp body, her hand still gripping the handle of the fire alarm.

Crowley grinned. At least the building would be clear.

With her opponent distracted by the sudden downpour of fire sprinklers, Pepper gained the upper hand on Michael, striking her upside the head with the chair leg and wrestling her knife away from her.

“Don't even move, Bitch!" the agent snarled as the terrorist tried to crab-walk away across the floor. 

Crowley glared back down at Gabriel’s lacky. "I said where is..." he trailed off when he saw the other man's eyes, which were bouncing from the bomb in Adam’s hands to the opposite side of the room. Crowley followed his gaze and saw a familiar dark head of hair and gray jacket retreating out a side exit with other evacuating guests.

"Never mind," Crowley said with a sneer. "Got my answer."

The other man didn't have a chance to respond before Crowley snapped his neck.

Crowley was on his feet and heading towards the door without another thought. He heard Adam call after him, but only slowed down to snatch his gun off the floor. He had extra ammo in the Bentley.

"Take care of it!" he shouted. "I've got to stop Gabriel!"

Just as he pushed his way out of the ballroom, Crowley saw Newt fighting his way into the lobby, shouting some excuse about being with the bomb squad, and the knot in his chest loosened slightly. Between the two of them Newt and Adam would stop the world going up in flames. 

\---------------------------------------------

Crowley didn't catch sight of Gabriel again until he was outside. The former agent shoved another, older, man aside and leapt into the front of a recently hailed taxi when the driver stepped out to pick up the fallen man. Crowley noted the car's plates as he darted across the street to the waiting Bentley.

He popped open the driver's door and he wasted no time peeling into traffic after the stolen taxi as Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” blasted from the radio.

Sirens were blaring everywhere. Police were attempting to create a barricade and clear traffic for a pair of fire trucks barreling towards the Ritz. Crowley didn't care. He had started this mission to find Aziraphale and he'd be damned if he didn't finish it. He had to know where Gabriel was headed.

If there was any chance his angel was still alive, he'd either be at the destination or otherwise Crowley would beat the information out of violet-eyed bastard.

Gabriel seemed to realize he was being followed and abruptly sped up.

"Oh no you don't," Crowley growled, slamming the accelerator and shifting up.

A horn blared as Gabriel cut off a sedan in the left lane.

Crowley wove into the right lane and back to center, dodging around a city bus.

Angry horns joined the cacophony of sirens as the two cars darted through the traffic at unholy speeds.

Gabriel cranked a tight turn from the wrong lane as the traffic light turned yellow. Crowley followed him through without a second thought as the light switched to red, swerving part-way through the intersection to avoid hitting an oncoming car and dodging a collision somewhat miraculously.

"Alright," Crowley huffed, relieving the tension of the near miss. "Let's slow you down a little." He flicked a switch on the dashboard and a small part of the car’s grill just under the headlamps flipped up, revealing two slim gun barrels aimed at perfect tire-height.

The traffic was thinning thanks to the police roadblocks and he had a clear shot. Crowley dropped his hand back to the gear lever, flipped open a subtle cap with one finger and squeezed the concealed trigger.

A string of low caliber bullets flew from the retractable guns, piercing the taxi's rear left tire. The taxi swerved erratically, as Gabriel compensated for the sudden blowout, but didn't stop and sparks were soon shooting from the metal rim.

Crowley fired a second time but again missed the right wheel. He groaned and smashed the steering wheel in frustration. They were nearing an intersection and he couldn't risk firing again, he had to begrudgingly give Gabriel credit for holding it together. Not many people could navigate city traffic without a tire.

They were now speeding down 49th Street heading west. Crowley remembered with a flash Beelzebub mentioning a boat when she'd told Ligur and Hastur to kill him. They were heading towards the docks on the Hudson! He was sure of it.

Gabriel swerved down a side street and Crowley had to slam on the brakes as he cranked the wheel into the turn, almost convinced the car was tipping onto two wheels.

Crowley didn't know exactly how long they'd been driving but as they continued to weave through the streets of Hell's Kitchen it was obvious the ex-spy thought he could lose him.

As he utilized his hand brake to make another wildly dangerous turn, an idea struck him.

_He won't head back to base unless he thinks he's lost me._

Crowley slowed and leaned over to the glove box, groping around until he produced the tracking cigarettes and a pack of gum. He popped a piece of the gum in his mouth and began chewing as he maneuvered the car into the lane next to Gabriel.

Slipping a cigarette out of the pack, Crowley activated the tracking device and rolled down his window, grateful to be driving a British car on an American road.

Crowley brought the cigarette to his lips and pressed the gum to its base with his tongue. He braced himself. He would only have one shot at this.

The car in front of Gabriel turned off the street. This was his moment. Crowley threw the Bentley into top gear and sped alongside the taxi, flicking the sticky cigarette out the window as he changed lanes, cutting Gabriel off.

As he heard the taxi's tires squeal to a halt behind him, Crowley pulled the turn signal and a belch of smoke erupted from the Bentley's exhaust pipe, obscuring the other car from view. Taking advantage of the confusion, the redhead gunned the classic car down the nearest side street and into a car park, safely out of view.

As soon as he parked, he flicked on the dashboard navigation system and prayed to anyone who might be listening that his aim had been accurate.

The map glowed to life and calibrated. Crowley saw the little black icon indicating his position pop onto the screen. A moment later it was joined by a second dot, blinking green, and making its way towards the river.

If Crowley whooped in triumph, he would never admit it.

As he waited for Gabriel to fall into a false sense of security, Crowley felt his mobile buzz and pulled it out of his pocket, privately stunned it was still functional. On the cracked screen was a three-word text from Adam: “BOMB DISARMED! GABRIEL?”

“IN PURSUIT,” he replied, before tossing the device into the backseat. It could only be a distraction now.

He gave Gabriel exactly three minutes and the entire run of “I’m in Love with my Car” before he resumed his chase, steadily this time though. He didn't need the man in his sights anymore. He just needed to catch up before he could hurt anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading! Please let me know what you think of this chapter in the comment, I love reading your feedback. :) 
> 
> Because you were all nice enough not to swear at me over the last cliffhanger (and because I don’t want to compete with Ineffable Con on Friday) I’ve decided the next chapter will be going up a day early on Thursday!
> 
> An extra-special thanks goes out to my beta-reader [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for this chapter since she used her petrol-head skills to give this American a brief lesson on what it would be like to drive an antique British car as I was writing this chapter before she knew anything about the story or had agreed to be my beta. You're the best!
> 
> You may have noticed that the chapter count has been dropped and the story is now listed as part of a series... don't fret! None of my original plans for this story have changed. The main narrative of this T-rated story will end after Chapter 17. There will be an 18th chapter posted for this story, but it is mostly going to be a link to Part 2 of the series which is an E-rated epilogue. I wanted the story to be marked as complete after Chapter 17 though so anyone waiting to read it until it was over at it's current rating would know it was done. More information to come. 
> 
> As always, kudos are appreciated and I can be found on social media at [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921). If you had trouble following the link to my Tumblr, I've only just become aware of the problem and it is fixed now!


	15. Fireball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Crowley searches for his angel and finally confronts Gabriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna distract you with notes on this one. I hope it lives up to your expectations!
> 
> TW: Action movie violence and blood

Crowley found the taxi parked in the lot of a private marina. The vessels docked in the area all seemed to be privately owned and seemed better classified as yachts than boats. He glanced around, looking for a sign of Gabriel or a ship that looked ready to make way. It took him only a few minutes to find both.

Crowley heard voices shouting from down the dock, including one with a familiar, buzzing Russian accent.

"You're early, what happened?" Beelzebub demanded. "Where are the otherzzz?"

"We were ambushed!" Gabriel bellowed back. "Sandalphon is dead. I had to make a run for it. That bastard Crowley had a whole crew with him because SOMEONE let him escape."

"I left him with my two best men!" Beelzebub snapped.

"Well your best wasn't good enough, Sunshine, because I'd wager they're BOTH dead now. Hastur never came up from the kitchen."

Beelzebub sputtered something in Russian that sounded like swearing. Crowley was still too far away to make it out clearly through the buzzing. 

Following the bickering voices, Crowley found himself at the gang plank of what could only be called a superyacht. At least 50 metres long and painted light grey, it looked more like a small battleship than a pleasure vessel, but then again, Crowley supposed that's probably what it was meant to be. The hull looked reinforced and he harbored no doubts that it could sustain a dozen people for months at sea if properly supplied.

"What about the bomb?" Beelzebub asked as Crowley began searching for a way to sneak on board the monstrosity of a boat.

"Don't know," Gabriel admitted. He sounded nervous. "They found it, but there's no guarantee they'll disarm it in time."

Beelzebub grunted. She did not sound convinced. "I zupppoze we can hope but we need to leave now either way. Onze we get out to zea we'll take care of your guezzt and throw him overboard. Then we can figure out where to go from there."

Crowley felt his heart skip a beat. _Aziraphale is alive and on the ship! But he won't be for long._ He had to get onboard. 

Moving as swiftly as he could without making too much noise, Crowley made his way along the side of the ship, staying as close to the edge of the dock as he dared so as not to be seen from the main deck. When he reached the back of the ship, he found his entrance point, a rope tethering the yacht to the dock. It was slow going, but he managed to pull himself up hand over hand and climb over the railing.

Once onboard Crowley reached for the switch on his glasses, scrolling past the night-vision mode to infrared. Immediately, several man-shaped red blobs appeared in his field of vision, walking as if suspended in midair on the various levels of the ship.

In addition to Gabriel and Beelzebub there appeared to be three other crew members wandering about the main deck and cabins, although it was hard to determine how many more might be below deck, since the heat of the engine room was blurring the whole lower level of the ship. If he had to guess, Aziraphale was down in that mess somewhere.

Crowley drew in a steadying breath, took one last look to map out the positions of his opponents, and switched off the glasses. Lurking in the shadows as much as he could, Crowley slowly made his way across the deck, gun drawn, searching for a staircase or a way inside the cabin. 

Crowley heard a squeaking sound behind him and dove into a niche between a large crate and the railing. The space was tight even around his slender frame. Pressing himself as low to the ground as he could, the redhead peered around the box to see a crewman in a white shirt and grey trousers step out of a door that had blended seamlessly into the cabin wall.

_Jackpot!_ Crowley thought. He sprung as gracefully as he could from his hiding place, clamping one hand over the man's mouth and nose and wrapping his other arm securely around his torso to hold him in place while he pressed his gun under his chin.

"Don't even think about yelling for help," Crowley hissed in the man's ear. "One wrong move and you're dead, understand?"

The man nodded frantically and Crowley slid his hand away from the captive's nose so he could breathe.

"Good," the spy said. "Where are they keeping the prisoner?" he asked, voice calm despite his own worries.

The man muttered something unintelligible against his hand and Crowley loosened his grip enough to let him speak while also pushing the gun harder into his neck.

The man drew a shuddering breath, "please don't kill me," he begged. "I swear I have nothing to do with this, I just got hired to man the ship a couple weeks ago. I didn't even know there was a prisoner until yesterday."

"Shut up," Crowley growled. "I don't have to hurt you. I'm just here for my friend."

"He's on the bottom level," the man said with a shudder. Bottom of the stairs on the right, down the hall through the engine room, in the storage area on the left."

"Is there a key? A security code?" Crowley asked.

"Just a key, but I don't have it," the man sobbed. "If anyone does it's the Russian. I don't think she trusts anyone. Not even her partner."

Crowley gave a single nod, it was a complication, but one he could deal with. "Thanks," he said. "You've been most helpful." Without another word he released the man and brought the gun down across the back of his head.

After stowing the unconscious crewman in the same niche he'd been hiding in, Crowley made his way through the door the man had emerged from and into the bowels of the ship.

Crowley kept his gun at the ready as he slowly descended the metal stairs. While the ship's living quarters looked quite posh from the glimpse he'd gotten on his way to the stairs, the stairwell itself was a utilitarian, stainless steel shaft; there would be nowhere to hide if anyone else were to enter it.

Loath as he was to alert anyone to his presence, he knew he would likely have to shoot to kill should the situation arise. As far as he was concerned, anyone he came across now was disposable, even Gabriel. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to get rid of them too loudly.

Beneath the thudding of his own heartbeat Crowley could hear some bustling about on the deck and in the halls as he passed landings. He'd been right before, there must have been more crew by the engine and there was likely another staircase and door at the front of the ship, on the other side of the engine room.

_Good to know,_ he thought. He might need it to escape.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs Crowley was greeted with a heavy, steel door that was mercifully unlocked. The hall was stark but more decorated than the stairwell, with linoleum flooring and walls painted a taupe shade. The rooms here were clearly more for operations than living. On the right was a well-appointed galley, on the left a cleaner's closet and small bathroom.

At the end of the hall another, heavier door stood with a placard indicating high voltage and hot equipment. 

"This must be the place," Crowley muttered to himself. His heart was racing as he wrenched the heavy vault-style wheel on the door and swung it open.

"Ay! Who're you?" a worker shouted.

Crowley pointed his gun at a slight figure with two thick spikes of hair protruding from the top of their head.

"Get out of my way," the spy growled.

"This area's for designated persons only. I'll have to call sec---"

Crowley fired before the strange-haired person's hand could reach the red alarm button.

_Somebody, help me,_ he thought with a cringe as the body hit the floor, _don't let anyone have heard that._

Knowing time was now likely of the essence, Crowley sprinted through the complex equipment and boilers of the engine room to the far end where, on the left, he saw the door of what could only be a storage space fixed with both a standard lock and an abnormally large bolt.

Crowley threw himself against the door with all his might. "Aziraphale!" he called. "Aziraphale are you in there?!"

Crowley pressed his ear to the door and thought he heard a muffled sound. Whether it was gagged shouting or a shuffling of feet he couldn't say, but his heart soared.

"Aziraphale! It's Anthony! Get back from the door!"

Crowley scrambled back, pulling the sliding bolt loose and jiggling the knob. It held fast.

The agent took a step back and kicked with all his might above the handle.

Falling on his arse was a small price to pay if it had worked, but the spy was both embarrassed and angry to discover the pain was to no avail.

Crowley let out an inarticulate noise and swore. "God damn it!" He staggered to his feet and spun around, looking for anything he could use to jimmy the lock. His eyes landed on a toolbox and he lunged or it, throwing tools left and right as he searched; no longer caring if he made noise.

"Finally!" Crowley gasped as his hand closed around the handle of a narrow screwdriver. He grabbed it and a hammer, sprinted back to the door and thrust the flat head of the screwdriver into the lock to begin twisting it.

"Come on," he muttered. "Come on you son of a bitch!"

He smashed the hammer down on the handle as he gave a hard twist and he felt the tumblers shatter.

"Ha-ha!" he cried triumphantly. Crowley wrenched the door open and tumbled into a small room in his haste to get inside. It was empty except for a single wooden chair. Even in the darkness of the oversized closet Crowley couldn't mistake Aziraphale tied to it; his white-blond hair seemed to glow like a halo around his head and his pale blue eyes were wide and frantic as the light poured into the tight space.

"Crrwry!" Aziraphale gasped through the gag in his mouth.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley nearly sobbed, scrambling across the floor before he could even pull himself to his feet.

Crowley reached up to pull the gag from his friend's mouth, allowing his hand to linger just a second too long on one round, soft cheek.

Aziraphale drew in a deep breath as the scarf was pulled from his mouth.

"Crowley!" the blond gasped. "What're you doing here? There's a bomb! The Ritz..." Aziraphale was on the verge of panic as he struggled against the bonds holding his hands and wrists to the chair. "We might still have time! You have to go!"

"Shh... sshhh... it's alright," Crowley tried to hush his friend, firing up the saw blade on his watch and starting to cut away at the ropes. "It's taken care of. We found your notes. Adam and Newt already have the bomb."

"Gabriel...?" Aziraphale started to ask, as Crowley stood and pulled him to his feet.

"Is upstairs," Crowley answered. "And he'll be coming down to kill you soon, so we've got to get out of here!"

"Not so fast," a cold, American voice interrupted.

Crowley could have sworn all his internal organs dropped to the floor as he slowly turned to face Gabriel, careful to keep his own body firmly between the man in the doorway and his angel. Slowly, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, the blade on his watch still spinning. 

"Well, well, Mr. Heralding. Fancy running into you here," Crowley sing-songed, trying not to let his fear show. His gun was still in his pocket from his work with the toolbox but he knew any sudden movements would trigger Gabriel, who had his own pistol pointed right at them.

Gabriel couldn’t disguise a look of surprise at the use of his true name.

"That's right, I know your little secret," Crowley hissed. He shifted his posture to more squarely face off with the former CIA agent and let his right leg kick back to tap Aziraphale's. He popped his hip pointedly, hoping his partner would catch on and retrieve the gun from his pocket.

"It makes no difference," Gabriel spat. "I changed identities once, I can do it again."

"Oh really?" Crowley snorted, jostling Aziraphale's leg again. "How many of your old underworld buddies are gonna take your calls once it comes out you planned to let them all die in World War Three?"

Gabriel's violet eyes flashed as Crowley felt Aziraphale's hand slip delicately into his pocket. Crowley bit his own tongue to keep his brain from zeroing in on THAT sensation. _Now was NOT the time._

"That's enough out of you!" Gabriel snapped, raising the gun.

"Aziraphale, duck!" Crowley shouted as he launched himself forward at Gabriel, throwing his arm out in a ferocious backhanded swing to swipe the spinning watch blade at their captor's face.

Gabriel's eyes went wide and he staggered backwards, barely dodging the blow.

Both men tumbled out of the closet, sending Crowley's sunglasses flying off his face as they came into the harsh florescent light of the engine room. Gabriel's gun shot off into the air as Crowley connected his fist with his jaw; the bullet ricocheted off a pipe, releasing a cloud of steam. A shrill alarm bell started ringing in another part of the ship as the bullet embedded in the wall.

From the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Aziraphale dart out of the closet, gun drawn. He looked as uncomfortable as ever wielding the firearm and Crowley wished he'd had the sense to steal a knife from the galley on his way in.

"That'zz quite enough," an almost bored, buzzing voice commanded.

Crowley spun around to see Beelzebub standing behind Aziraphale, the muzzle of a gun held to the back of the blond's head.

Aziraphale gulped and Beelzebub laughed, a horrible, dry sound.

"I guezz you were right Arkangel," the Russian said with a sneer. "Leaving this one alive wazzz worth it. Thankz to him we get to pay Mr. Crowley here back for all the trouble he'zzz caused uzzz."

Gabriel smirked and stepped away from Crowley, who had frozen in fear for Aziraphale, and moved to stand beside Beelzebub.

"Thanks, Beez," he said in almost mock affection. He kissed her on the top of the head and she slapped him hard across the face, eliciting a strange blush. 

"Don't get cocky!" she snapped.

Throughout the exchange, the Russian never once took her eyes off Aziraphale.

"I'm sorry, Dear Boy," Aziraphale said in a whisper so low, it almost couldn't be heard over the rise and fall of the trilling alarm.

"Angel..." Crowley started. His heart felt like it was breaking and he didn't know what to say. _Don't be; No, I'm sorry;_ and _I love you_ all floated through his mind but before he could choose any of them, he heard the sickening click of Beelzebub’s old-fashioned pistol cocking.

"Zay goodbye to your friend, Mr. Crowley," she jeered at him.

A desperate idea came to his mind and Crowley drew a deep breath. He had to try.

"I'm sorry too Angel," he said. He just had time to see Aziraphale finally register the pet name with a look of surprise before he threw himself forward once again and tackled his best friend backwards into the smirking terrorist.

Aziraphale yelped as the pair tumbled to the ground, his larger weight and height knocking Beelzebub off balance as he crashed into her. Crowley couldn't take the time to ensure Aziraphale landed softly, he needed every millisecond of advantage his surprise attack had earned him.

Pushing off Aziraphale’s chest he leapt to his feet and attempted to wrestle the gun away from Beelzebub. She clawed at him with her free hand and managed to get herself unsteadily to her feet but was unable to break Crowley’s hold on her.

Crowley pushed his adversary back until her back collided with a piece of machinery as he continued to wrench her wrist up, keeping the gun safely away from himself and Aziraphale.

Off to the side, he noticed Gabriel appeared conflicted between helping his partner[1] and dispatching Aziraphale, who seemed to be stunned from the fall, but conscious.

Apparently choosing to neutralize the blond, Crowley saw Gabriel level his gun towards the floor before dropping suddenly out of his field of vision, his legs swept out from underneath him in an unexpectedly quick maneuver by Aziraphale.

Crowley's attention was quickly drawn away from the struggle on the floor by a shooting pain up his right leg as Beelzebub landed a fierce kick to his shin.

He hissed in a sharp breath but did not relinquish his grip on her gun arm. Crowley twisted said arm behind the former agent's back and used the leverage to drive her sideways, directly into the jet of steam still spilling from the pipe Gabriel had shot.

The Prince of Hell let out a shriek of pain and her gun clattered to the floor.

Crowley seized the opportunity and kicked the pistol as hard as he could, sending it skittering across the floor before tossing its owner as best he could in the opposite direction.

There was a crash and a snarl of pain as Beelzebub's body smashed into a metal cabinet.

Crowley whirled around to assist Aziraphale and found his friend pinned to the ground, by a now bloody-nosed Gabriel. Neither man was armed, and while Gabriel had the literal upper hand, straddling the blond and holding him to the floor, Aziraphale still appeared to be holding his own, driving his knee up into the larger man's abdomen as Crowley watched, causing the American to grunt in pain.

The redhead decided to take the chance of leaving his partner alone one minute longer. Ducking through the cloud of steam he unclipped the serpent's head belt buckle from his waist and engaged the explosive, sticking the device to an exposed piece of the ship's engine.

Crowley crouched down behind the machine and began setting the timer on his watch's extraneous dial, the one that counted up to the words "too late." Once he pushed in the pin, the countdown to too late would take only three minutes, but as he finished setting it, he heard an awful thud and the groan of a fussy voice.

Leaping back through the steam from his hiding place, Crowley saw a trickle of blood coming from the back of Aziraphale's head and Gabriel's hands closed around his friend's throat.

A torrent of rage rushed through Crowley's body like hellfire and he automatically drove his hands to his pocket. Without a second thought, he withdrew his cigarette lighter, flicked open the cap, and pushed in the bottom as he pointed it at Gabriel.

Two seconds later a gout of flame erupted from the end like a blast from a miniature dragon, igniting the American's suit and hair.

Gabriel screamed as his clothes were engulfed in flames, releasing Aziraphale to attempt patting out the fire.

Crowley kicked the flaming figure off Aziraphale's prone figure and snatched up a discarded gun from the floor.

A single shot reverberated through the engine room as Crowley put an end to Gabriel's burning pain.

Moving as fast as he could, Crowley punched in the pin on his watch and scooped Aziraphale up into his arms, bridal style.

_Not exactly how I'd imagined this,_ he thought wryly, _but as long as you're safe._

The other agent was still breathing, but he was dead weight in Crowley's arms. Crowley was on a mission though, he had not come this far to lose him now.

Harnessing every bit of adrenaline his body could produce, he started back out the way he'd come at what could generously be called a jog. As he approached the engine room door, an infuriated growl rang out and Beelzebub was suddenly blocking his path.

"You think I'm letting you just waltzzz away from thizzz Crowley?" she snarled. Red blotches marred her face from the steam and her blue eyes looked wild with rage. "You and your little boyfriend here are going to pay for what you've done. Thizz endz here."

Hating himself for it as he made the choice, Crowley took the one option at his disposal, twisting at the waist and swinging Aziraphale's legs like a bat to bash the Russian in the head, knocking her out.

"You're right," he said with a cold smirk. "It does." He took a long-legged step over her and continued out into the hall. " Do Svidniya, Comrade."

\---------------------------------------------

Crowley burst through the door to the main deck and ran as best as he could for the bow of the ship with Aziraphale still unresponsive in his arms. He was running out of time before the engine blew.

Still Aziraphale was injured, and even as he ran as fast as he could towards the gang plank, Crowley tried his best to cradle the blond's head on his shoulder, not sparing a single thought for the bloodstain slowly seeping into his tuxedo jacket. It was already a mess anyway.

His watch continued its slow ticking towards too late. Only thirty seconds left! _Shit!_ "It's okay, we're gonna make it," Crowley whispered frantically.[2] "We're gonna be fine." He spotted the walkway and barreled down it, not stopping when his feet hit the dock, instead making a beeline for the Bentley. Over the sounds of scrambling sailors and the ever-present drone of the engine alarm, he heard a ping from his wrist, followed by a thunderous boom as the ship behind him was engulfed in a ball of flames.

The sound roused Aziraphale, whose eyes fluttered open, looking up somewhat dazedly at Crowley.

"Hi Angel," Crowley said with a smile, despite the circumstances.

"Crowley," Aziraphale purred, returning his smile weakly.

Crowley's heart melted as his own golden eyes met Aziraphale's stormy blue ones and he leaned in towards his friend, anticipating the feel of his soft lips against his own...

* * *

[1] His lover? Crowley couldn't waste time parsing that relationship out at the moment, but he cringed nonetheless at the thought.

[2] More to himself than to Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always I'd love to know what you thought of this installment and theories about what's to come. Everybody have a great weekend. If you run into me at Ineffable Con don't be shy. 😊
> 
> If I don't see you there and you want to say hi on social media, I'd always love to hear from you on [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921).


	16. You Only Dream Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Crowley has saved his angel! Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all had a great weekend! This is a short chapter. We'll talk after.

** May 4, 2020: Soho, London **

Aziraphale stood in his flat facing off with the mattress.

He had spent the last thirty-two hours[1] researching everything he could about demon psychology[2] and rereading old dream communications reports he'd been asked to sign off on back in the day. Sometimes it paid to keep copies of everything, though finding the old file he'd kept the documents in had proven to be a bit of a challenge.[3]

Finally, after having exhausted his reading list[4] he had arrived at several conclusions: one, that Crowley was indeed having some sort of infernal nightmare which he was likely powerless to control; two, that a dreamer could be safely awoken from within their own dream with proper, delicate angelic intervention; and three, that he would need to reenter Crowley's subconscious but only awaken him if all other options to reprogram the dream failed--he would not alert the demon to his presence, simply check in and do a small miracle to make sure he didn't spend the next several weeks in unconscious distress.

He didn't want to make his friend angry, but he couldn't very well leave him to his own worst fantasies! Crowley had rescued him dozens of times over the millennia after all, often from his own foolishness; he was due to return the favor… even if when all was said and done he still wouldn’t be able to talk to him until July. 

"Alright Aziraphale, buck up! You can do this old boy," he told himself with a cheer he didn't truly feel as he toed off his shoes and prepared to reenter the nightmare, removing his cufflinks and pocket watch and setting them gently on the nightstand. "It's for Crowley's wellbeing after all."

That was all the motivation he needed to steel his nerve. Aziraphale laid down on the bed, closed his eyes, and focused on reaching his mind out towards Crowley.

\---------------------------------------------

Aziraphale once again felt the familiar sensation of touching bottom in a deep pool and opened his eyes. The lightheaded sensation dissipated as his vision came into focus. He was grateful that at least this time there was some light, but his surroundings were still unfamiliar.

He appeared to be standing in some sort of shipyard on an unfamiliar dock, next to a monstrous yacht.[5] There seemed to be some sort of commotion going on nearby: an alarm was buzzing somewhere in the distance and several sailors had started fleeing down the vessel’s gangplank and leaping overboard, crying out in fear to one another.

_Crowley what have you gotten yourself into now?_ Aziraphale mused, wondering if perhaps this was some sort of flashback to his friend's time in America in the 20's or his stint in counterintelligence fighting the Nazis. In the low glow of the setting sun he could see he was near a city, but nothing looked distinct enough to determine which one.

Then he heard heavy breathing and pounding footsteps from the deck overhead and all thoughts of where he was were forgotten as he heard a stream of frantic muttering. It sounded like Crowley. He sounded worried.

Not wanting to be discovered in his friend's subconscious, Aziraphale quickly moved to crouch behind a storage container and continued watching the ship. Only seconds later, Crowley, dressed in a remarkably handsome suit, pounded down the gangplank looking panicked and clutching something--- _no,_ Aziraphale realized--- _SOMEONE_ in his arms.

The angel craned his neck to get a better look as Crowley continued running up the dock before a deafening explosion rocked the pier.

Aziraphale was thrown from his hiding place by the blast. He pulled himself shakily to his feet and gasped when he realized that the explosion had come from the very ship Crowley had just escaped, and the vessel was now consumed in flames. "Good Lord..."

Then he heard Crowley's voice again and he was sure the jig was up.

"Hi Angel," he heard Crowley drawl, a smile evident in his voice.

Aziraphale's heart stopped, sure he was about to be teased or worse. _At least he doesn't sound angry,_ he thought desperately. He whirled around to explain himself, then felt his jaw drop when he heard a dreamy, star-struck approximation of his own voice answer in delight.

"Crowley!"

It took him only a second longer to recognize the figure in Crowley's arms. From his new vantage point, he could clearly see his own tan suit and pale curls against the inky black of Cowley's tuxedo. There was no denying the prone figure was him,[6] but he didn't know what to make of what he was seeing.

Before he could stop himself, before he could remember his plan, and before Crowley could finish leaning in to plant his lips firmly on Dream-Aziraphale's in what looked like it was about to be a passionate embrace, the angel had darted forward and blurted out his friend's name in shocked confusion.

"Crowley?!"

Aziraphale felt the air freeze around him, the heat from the fire suddenly vanishing as if the demon had stopped time as Crowley straightened up and turned around to face him, a look of abject horror written on his face, his golden eyes blown full yellow.

"Aziraphale?!" he shouted back, his voice pitching abnormally high. "Jesus Fucking Christ!"

Before more could be said, Aziraphale felt a force in his chest and gut like he was being pushed violently backwards out a door. The scene went black and he found himself once again jolting awake in his bedroom.

* * *

[1] Except for those few minutes he spent visiting with Lesley the International Express man, who had come this time to deliver several new non-stick baking pans and an electric mixer Aziraphale had ordered last week (because really, patronizing small businesses online was the least he could do to help humanity in this time of crisis!) He’d cut the visit short though because he had important work to do and he suspected he’d be seeing the man again soon anyway; once he had ensured Crowley’s safety he was planning on ordering a new toaster as his had developed the odd habit in the last two days of vanishing his bread to heaven-only-knew-where, and it had become quite vexing.

[2] Admittedly, not a very well documented subject.

[3]“Maybe Crowley has a point about the place being cluttered,” he had reluctantly admitted two hours into his file search. Not that he would ever say that to the demon!

[4] And cringing at memories of several failed archangel messaging missions.

[5] A fussy part of his mind spared a second to glance down and check to make sure his subconscious had not forgone his shoes as he had on the physical plane at the sight of the industrial grime and splintered wood and was relieved to find he hadn’t. One couldn’t be too careful in a demonic nightmare, after all. 

[6] Though now that he could see the scene better, he noted that his eyes looked ridiculously sparkly as they reflected the light from the still raging inferno behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, who guessed it?!
> 
> Some of you predicted that this was going to happen after my last cliffhanger, but I think some of you forgot this was a dream. lol! (It was killing me trying not to give anything away when I was answering your comments.) FYI: I knew from the moment this fic started that this was where the dream ended... I just didn't realize what a journey it was going to be to get here and in fact I originally had Aziraphale show up at the end of the last chapter but you were all so attached to Agent Double-Six Six's story that I wanted to give Crowley an extra little moment to revel in his victory. 
> 
> So, what happens next? You'll find out Friday! The next update is going to be a long one, but as usual I welcome any and all speculation in the comments. Thank you all so much for reading! This story is obviously winding down so if you want to stay up to date on my upcoming stories, please find me on social media at [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921). Also, I am tantalizingly close to 100 kudos on this story and I would love to see it get pushed past that mark, so if you are feeling generous, please consider me for a share or recommendation. Thanks! And thank you for getting this fic over 2000 hits! I’m overwhelmed and I Love you all.
> 
> P.S. If you didn't get the toast reference go watch the music video for Kelly Lee Owens' "Corner of My Sky" starring Michael Sheen. I'm not a huge fan of the song, but the video is insane. It came out right after I published the first Aziraphale chapter with Leslie and the impulse shopping so I couldn't resist sticking it in. I am also accepting guesses on where the toast is going...


	17. Demons are Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Crowley's rude awakening, a cranky demon and a mortified angel have to have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everybody this is it! After all the cliffhangers and craziness, I hope you enjoy the conclusion of our main narrative. I'll leave you to it now but PLEASE read the notes at the end of the chapter. 😊

Crowley sat up in bed with a snort and a jolt.

"Wha' th'fuck?!" he gasped, still half dazed. "Aziraphale? How'd'd'he? Was tha' real?"

As the demon's brain struggled to catch up with reality he became aware suddenly of his phone ringing on the nightstand next to him, Freddie Mercury's gentle crooning of 'Your My Best Friend' telling him who was calling without having to look at the angel's name on the screen.

Crowley groaned. _Best get this over with,_ he thought, reaching for his sunglasses and the mobile.[1]

No sooner had he huffed "hello, Aziraphale," into the phone than the angel's frantic voice began babbling in his ear and Crowley slumped his head into his free hand.

"Crowley? I'm so sorry, Dear Boy! I didn't mean to intrude! Are you quite alright? What’s going on? Were you--"

"Angel!" Crowley barked into the phone, registering in the back of his mind that Aziraphale didn't sound angry. _Good,_ he thought. _That means I can._

"Shut up a second and step away from the phone," he ordered.

"What?"

"Just do it!"

"Alright then."

Crowley heard the angel's answer, followed by the soft sound of footsteps. He sighed and snapped his fingers, instantly disintegrating into much smaller molecules and zipping into the phone.

\---------------------------------------------

Aziraphale had wasted only thirty seconds lying on his bed in pure mortification before storming down the stairs to the shop to call Crowley.

His brain reeled over what he had just seen. _Was that still a nightmare? Was I dying? Was Crowley about to..._

He shook his head in disbelief. He HAD to call the demon.

"Shut up a second and step away from the phone," Crowley snapped in his ear. He sounded angry.

Aziraphale didn't know what he was expecting when he set the receiver down on the desk and backed three steps away but it certainly wasn't for his friend to suddenly materialize in front of him, still in his black pajamas and socks and, inexplicably, his sunglasses.

"Crowley!" he yelped, utterly shocked.

"Aziraphale," Crowley answered coolly.

"Crowley, I... I don't know exactly what just happened. I'm very sorry I woke you. I thought you might be..."

"Sssorry you woke me?" Crowley spluttered. "For fuck's sake Aziraphale, have you ever heard of privacy?! You say you don't want to see me, I tell you I'm gonna have a nap, then when I do you decide to come pop on over into my head? How the Hell did you even do that?! I thought your lot gave that up in the dark ages!"

"It's not something one just forgets," Aziraphale said dismissively. "How did you pop through the telephone?" he shot back. "If I'd known you could do that, we could have avoided this whole mess in the first place!"

"How do you think I trapped Hastur in my answering machine? And what do you mean we could have avoided this mess? Why would it ever come up? And how would me popping out of your ancient phone stop you from invading my head in my sleep?"

"Because if I'd known you could pop over through the phone you wouldn't have had to go to sleep in the first place you ridiculous serpent!" Aziraphale retorted. He took a short breath and continued a little more softly as he registered what Crowley had said a minute before and noticed how the demon's eyebrows had shot up on his forehead. "And I never said I didn't want to see you. I said it would be against the rules... since when has that ever stopped you from doing things?"

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale, his anger receding slightly to be replaced with a sheepish look.

"Since I thought we were done playing these ssstupid games," he muttered with slight hiss. "When you said you'd sssee me when this is over, I figured I might as well go to bed since there was nothing better to do."

Aziraphale sighed, momentarily forgetting his telepathic faux pas. Even behind his dark sunglasses, Aziraphale could see the hurt in his best friend's yellow eyes. He deflated.

"I'm sorry Crowley," he said earnestly. "I suppose I'm still not used to this whole business of being on 'Our Side.' The truth is I've missed you terribly these last few weeks-- it's why I called-- but when you offered to come over it seemed like the wrong thing to do and I just... I didn't know how to admit it's what I wanted.

"In my defense, I did try to call again!" he added after a beat of continued silence from the serpent. "But by then you were asleep and I didn't know what to do... I just knew I didn't want to NOT see you until July. I only meant to check on you, I didn’t mean to intrude…"

Crowley looked at the fretful regret in the angel's eyes as he trailed off and felt his resolve crack. He could never stay angry with him, could he?

"I suppose that makes sense," Crowley mumbled around the lump that was rapidly forming in his throat. "I guess I'm still getting used to this too. 'S jus' I never thought you'd... I mean, I can't control what I dream about a-and—[2]"

Aziraphale raised his hand to cut him off mid-stammer. "Sssh... sssh... Dear, you don't have to explain anything. We can pretend this whole thing never happened if you're willing to forgive me."

Aziraphale was starting to sound nervous again and Crowley’s stunned brain didn't know if he should be disappointed or relieved.

_Of course, that's what he wants,_ the part of him that couldn't help feeling dejected spat sarcastically in the back of his mind. _I should never get my hopes up!_

 _At least he isn't throwing you out on your skinny arse!_ Another part of his brain, the guilty part, the part that still woke him up in cold sweats some nights with thoughts of burning bookshops, and archangels with hellfire, and of never seeing his best friend again, reminded him. _You ought to be grateful he isn't confronting you about what he saw and making you explain yourself._

Crowley grimaced, then realized it had been quite a while since he'd said something and Aziraphale was beginning to fidget frantically with his ring. He couldn't allow that.

Crowley sucked in a deep breath to swallow the last of his conflicting feelings. He'd deal with them later. If Aziraphale didn’t want to acknowledge it, then he wouldn’t. At least this way he still had his friend, and, on the plus side, it sounded like he was welcome to stay a while.

"Yeah alright. Sure thing, Angel. It never happened," he said with a strained smile. "You're forgiven... Now I believe you said something about cake?"

Aziraphale let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when he heard Crowley use his nickname again, even as he registered a twinge of disappointment in the pit of his stomach.

_It's only right of course,_ he told himself. _Crowley said so himself he can't help what he dreams of, so who are you to force him to talk about it? What did you expect? You know as well as anyone that dreams can be silly, **[3]**Crowley probably just watched some ridiculous action film and got carried away by his imagination is all. You didn't even see that much! You probably didn't even see what you thought you saw... It was foolish of you to make assumptions, and you can't force him to talk about it. You should consider yourself lucky the poor dear isn't holding this intrusion against you!_

Swallowing his disappointment, Aziraphale schooled his expression into a smile. At least he had his best friend here now to keep him company.

"Of course, dear," he said, perking up at the thought of having someone to share desert with. "I just took an angel food cake out of the oven."[4]

\-------------------------------------------

Crowley had finally started to relax as he popped the cork on their third bottle of wine, a bottle of Cabernet he had miracled over from his flat. This was nice; it felt familiar.

"Told you I'd bring something drinkable over Angel," he had said dismissively as Aziraphale fretted that he needn't bother. "B'sides we'll have plenty of time to tap into your supply as well."

That had been nearly twenty-four hours ago and they had since gone through a decanter of Scotch, two more bottles of Crowley's wine, and the entire angel food cake. Crowley had had one piece of the first cake and was now thoroughly enjoying watching Aziraphale savor his second piece of devil's food cake from behind the safety of his sunglasses as he sipped at a glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape from Aziraphale's wine cellar.

The angel looked gloriously relaxed; he had removed his jacket several hours earlier and a crumb was hanging precariously off the corner of his lower lip. Crowley had to fight the impulse to audibly whimper as he watched his friend's pink tongue poke out to recapture it.

"...Crowley?" Aziraphale suddenly asked, breaking the demon from his trance like state.

"Hmm... Was'sat?"

"Crowley, did you hear a word I just said?" Aziraphale asked with more amusement than annoyance.

"Yea----no," Crowley admitted with a guilty chuckle, his cheeks coloring slightly. "Sorry Angel, mind wandered off a bit there."

"Perfectly alright," Aziraphale shrugged. "I was just saying I don't remember ever having a cookbook section in the shop before, but I can't be sure if I miracled it here subconsciously when I got peckish or if Adam installed it and we just never noticed..."

The angel stopped and took another bite of his cake, wiggled happily and Crowley squirmed in his seat.

"Guess we'll never know," he said with a shrug.[5]

"Yes well, either way, it's been most useful," Aziraphale said. "I've found more recipes than you could dream of."

Aziraphale nearly choked on his own words when he saw Crowley casually choke on his wine at the comment.

The angel was starting to wonder if he should ignore the slip up or apologize when Crowley regained his composure.[6] Crowley could feel a warm blush start creeping up his neck.[7]

It was such a small thing. He should have been able to easily ignore it. But Aziraphale was staring at him now with a curious, somewhat embarrassed look, and there was no doubt he'd noticed the gaffe.

_To Hell with it!_ The pesky voice chimed in inside his head. _What's the harm? You don't have to talk about your feelings if he just wants to laugh it off._

The wine coursing through his system had decidedly relaxed the demon and a relaxed Crowley was a talkative Crowley. "Say, Angel..." he started, breaking the awkward silence.

Aziraphale seemed to perk up a bit but his eyes looked wary. Crowley pushed on. _No turning back now._

"We don' have to talk about it a lot, but speaking of dreams… I’ve gotta ask, how much did you see earlier? In my dream..."

Aziraphale blanched and set his now empty cake plate aside.[8] "Not a lot," he answered evasively. "At least I don't imagine it was a lot," he added quickly. "I mean, you were asleep for three days and I was only there for a few minutes."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I figured tha' much," Crowley said, waving his hand about loosely, "but... what did you **actually** see?"

Aziraphale squirmed in his armchair a little more, it was a different sort of squirm, Crowley noted, than when he was enjoying food but no less adorable.

"Are you really sure you want me to answer that Crowley?" the angel asked nervously, his unnecessary heart pounding entirely too fast in his chest.

Crowley shrugged. "Curiosity's always been my downfall Angel," he replied with a smirk at his own dark, private joke.

"Well alright then," Aziraphale sighed.

"I really didn't see much. In fact, the first time I didn't see anything at all, I just heard a lot of bumping and shouting in the dark and then something exploded!"

Crowley's eyes went wide behind his glasses as if in recognition, but he bit his lip before he could say anything.[9]

"I thought for sure you were remembering some kind of torture,” Aziraphale said. “That's why I decided to come back! Then when I did, I landed in that shipyard and then I saw you. I only had time to notice you were wearing a very nice suit and were carrying something before a ship exploded!"

The angel shook his head. "Honestly, Crowley, why is everything in your dreams combustible? Is that a demon thing?"

Crowley preened internally at the compliment to his clothes and chose to ignore the slight distaste with which Aziraphale said 'demon thing.'

"I honestly have no idea Angel," he said between a boisterous laugh and a sip of wine. "Not exactly something I liked to discuss down in Hell. Not actually even sure anyone else has ever done it."

Aziraphale snorted a laugh. "I suppose that's fair. I wouldn't exactly have wanted to talk about my inner thoughts with any of the Archangels... Anyway, that's what I saw."

"Tha's it? That's all you saw?" Crowley pushed. He didn't know why he was even doing this anymore, but his alcohol-soaked brain was insisting he press on.

"I'm not sure what else I saw," Aziraphale muttered defensively. Curiosity was one thing, but he didn't want to be made fun of if he was wrong. "I was still stunned from the explosion and I thought I heard you call me..."

Aziraphale was blushing fiercely now and Crowley had abandoned his usual, casual slump on the arm of the couch to lean forward expectantly. His glasses had slipped down his nose a bit and the angel could see his eyes had gone fully yellow as he blinked curiously at him.

"I hadn't realized when I first saw you that it was **me** you were rescuing," Aziraphale said cautiously. "So, I suppose I was a bit surprised..."

Crowley chuckled. "Shouldn't have been that much of a surprise, I've done it enough times in real life. Usually in a nice suit too," he added with a smug smirk.

Aziraphale smiled. "Yes, I suppose that's true... It did seem a bit dramatic even by your standards though."

"Oi! 'm not dramatic, I have style! And how was this any more 'dramatic' than bombing a church full of Nazis? That was right brilliant that was!"

The angel laughed sincerely this time, embarrassment nearly forgotten; this, this ridiculous bickering, was familiar. It felt right, so right he didn't think twice before lobbing his next quip.

"Yes, but we both stood right through that and simply dusted ourselves off! You didn't have to carry me out of the wreckage like some swooning damsel."

Aziraphale chuckled heartily until he realized he was the only one doing so. Crowley's face had gone red and he squirmed a bit awkwardly in his seat.

"I would have," he said, his tone shy and painfully honest. "If you'd needed me to."

Aziraphale stilled, his mind sobered up from the levity if not the alcohol. He cleared his throat.

"Well..." he said nervously, "that would have been very nice of you."

Crowley scoffed. "'m not nice," he muttered.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Oh no, of course not," he said sarcastically. "Nice people never go about looking after children, or saving their friends, or forgiving people for intruding on their fantasies---"

"Yeah or blowing up churches or dreaming about kissing their uninterested best friends!" Crowley cut him off.

Aziraphale gasped as the last words left Crowley's lips and the demon clapped a hand over his own mouth.

Aziraphale merely continued to gape at him, his expression unreadable.

"Ang-Aziraphale, that's not... I'm sorry... I didn't mean..." Crowley sputtered uncontrollably. _Now you've really gone an' done it you git!_ his subconscious screamed at him. _You and your damn questions!_

"I swear... I'm sorry," the demon apologized again frantically. "If you want me t' go now..." he started to clumsily get up from the couch, which seemed to snap Aziraphale out of his shocked state.

The angel's hand was on Crowley's wrist before the demon could get more than a step away from the couch.

"For Heaven's sake Dear Boy, sit down!" Aziraphale commanded. He didn't sound angry, but his tone invited no arguments.

Crowley wordlessly dropped back to the couch where Aziraphale, to his great surprise, joined him a second later.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said softly, releasing the demon's wrist only to set his hand gently on his friend's knee. "I think we may need to sober up."

Crowley grimaced and stared resolutely at the floor, shaking his head. He felt bad enough already, he was not about to drop his alcohol-based shield and let the magnitude of his own stupidity really settle in.

"Honestly, Crowley," Aziraphale huffed. "We need to talk about this, and I think it would be for the best if you heard what I had to say with a clear head."

Crowley sighed. The angel was probably right. Even if he wasn't, it wasn't like Crowley really had the willpower to tell him no. Crowley scrunched up his face and cringed through the feeling of forcing the alcohol out of his system. To his right he heard the tell-tale parched-mouth lip smacking which indicated Aziraphale had done the same. He kept his gaze firmly on his black socks.

"Crowley," Aziraphale started softly.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and wondered if it was possible to discorporate from humiliation.

"I'm afraid we've had a bit of a misunderstanding, my dear," the angel continued.

"Look Angel, please don't put me through this," Crowley groaned. "It doesn't have to mean anything. I was just lonely and watching too many movies and--"

Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley's cheek, tilting his face up and cutting him off.

"I'm sure that's true," the angel replied calmly. "What I'm trying to understand is why you are so sure I'd be upset about it."

Crowley, who had stopped breathing the second Aziraphale's hand made contact with his face, choked suddenly on the air still trapped in his lungs and let out a series of inarticulate noises before finally setting on "wh-wha?!"

Aziraphale simply smiled and continued to watch his friend’s face as he waited patiently for the demon to settle on a reaction.

"An-Angel? Waddaya? You... you said I go too fast for you…?"

Aziraphale's smile faltered and it was his turn to glance at the floor in shame.

"I suppose I did," he said sadly. "Though that was over fifty years ago. It seems I've had time to catch up..."

"But—but the end of the world, Angel?" Crowley continued to sputter. "It's been almost a year and you never said anything..."

Aziraphale looked up again sheepishly at his friend who was starting to struggle to hide the glimmer of hope on his surprised face.

"Well as I said, old habits die hard," he said with a frown, "and after everything we'd been through[10] I didn't know if your feelings had changed, and I was just so grateful to be free of our head offices and to be able to spend time together without worrying, that I didn't want to ruin it! Then this ghastly quarantine happened and I panicked when you said you were going to nap and I just wanted to see you, but when I did you were about to kiss me and I-- I..."

Crowley had heard enough. The little spark of hope in his chest that had been flickering since 1967 had exploded into fireworks and he couldn't resist anymore. Bringing both hands up to cup the angel's face, Crowley closed the space between them and cut off Aziraphale's nervous babbling with a gentle press of his lips to his best friend's.

Aziraphale's heart stopped for a moment then doubled its tempo. Crowley was kissing him! Not just a dream version of him... The demon's lips were **actually** pressed against his own, and they were softer than he'd imagined they would be.

Aziraphale felt a tiny moan escape his lips involuntarily and blushed as he felt Crowley's mouth curve into a grin against his own.

"'S that what you were trying to say you wanted, Angel?" Crowley asked, still sounding a bit shy but now unable to stop smiling.

"Quite right," Aziraphale replied breathlessly. "Only maybe you should try again to make sure we did it properly."

Crowley grinned wickedly. "Anything you want Angel," he purred. He leaned in to kiss his angel,[11] again, and felt his heart skip a beat as Aziraphale's lips parted beneath his and another one of those delicious moans escaped.

Crowley felt like he might melt when he heard the noise. If he'd thought it was enticing watching Aziraphale eat before, he knew it would be downright irresistible now that he knew those sounds weren't exclusive to food. Crowley growled and deepened the kiss, delighting in the feel of the angel's tongue brushing against his own.

All too soon Crowley felt the angel begin pulling back. He whimpered as the kiss broke and opened his eyes.

"Something wrong, Angel?" he asked nervously.[12]

"As a matter of fact..." Aziraphale started.

Crowley cringed then relaxed marginally when he felt a soft, well-manicured hand slide up the side of his face and brush against his serpent tattoo, an odd but not unpleasant tingle running down his spine as Aziraphale’s divine touch made contact with the demonic sigil.

"Do you mind?" the angel asked, as his fingers grasped the arm of Crowley's sunglasses.

The demon gave a small shake of his head and Aziraphale slid the glasses gently off his face, revealing his snakelike eyes.

"There you are," Aziraphale said with that smile Crowley could have sworn gave off its own holy light. "Much better." 

Crowley swallowed hard. "I feel exposed," he said with a nervous chuckle.

"Perhaps," the Angel said with a shrug, the warm smile never leaving his face as he set the glasses on the coffee table. "But I do so enjoy seeing your eyes."

Crowley blushed and ducked his head. "I'll make eye contact with you all you want Angel, but you don't have to flatter me. I know they're weird."

Aziraphale tutted and bent down to once again meet the demon's gaze. "Now listen here you fiend," Aziraphale said with a hint of righteous fury that made Crowley feel tingly all over. "Your eyes are unique and beautiful, and I will not have you disparaging something I love so much."

The eyes in question went impossibly wider and Crowley's eyebrows shot to his hairline as he sputtered. "Aziraphale are you serious?"

"Of course, my Dear," Aziraphale said reassuringly. "Even before I realized I loved you I always found your eyes rather stunning. Just like the rest of you."

Crowley thought his heart might burst from pure joy. Even in the wave of happiness that had engulfed him kissing the angel, a part of Crowley's brain had refused to believe his feelings were fully reciprocated. It had felt like too much to hope for.

"Aziraphale!" he gasped, choking sounds tumbling from his mouth between words as he fought to keep treacherous tears from escaping his eyes. "You really?... I love you too!"

Before the angel could properly reply Crowley had launched himself at him, knocking the blond back into the couch.

When they resurfaced for air several minutes later, hair matted and clothes wrinkled, the angel smiled and snuggled his face into Crowley's silky pajama top.

"I suppose you'll have to go back to your flat to get your things at some point, since you're obviously not going back to sleep, but I don't imagine there'd be any harm in you driving back instead of using the phone," Aziraphale said, after a moment.

Crowley raised a quizzical eyebrow at him but didn't say a word.

"I mean, since you're officially going to be 'hunkering down' here, it would hardly be breaking any rules," he added with a nervous chuckle.

"Oh, I am, am I?" Crowley said slyly, snaking an arm tighter around the angel's shoulder.

"Well I suppose I did assume," Aziraphale said, just a tad smugly. "You can take this as your formal invitation to stay then, my love."

"Are you sure that's what you want, Angel?" Crowley asked with a chuckle, even as he beamed at the new pet name. "Ya know once you invite us to stay, demons are forever." 

"I was rather counting on that, Dear Boy," he replied with a smile.

* * *

[1] The impending sense of dread and the desire to hide his face distracted him so much he didn’t notice the random pile of mysterious, stale toast sharing the nightstand with the items.

[2] _And what?!_ his subconscious berated him. _‘And I’ve been in love with you for millenia? And I watched a James Bond mini-marathon last week? And I thought you’d rejected me again, so my imagination found the next best thing and made you into a Bond-girl for me?’ (Bond-boy?) How do you finish that sentence?!_

[3] Aziraphale had once been tasked with delivering a message of divine inspiration to a nun on her way to sainthood and found her smack in the middle of a dream involving a clown, a bottomless box of chocolates, and a talking sheep. He knew it was best not to ask questions, but he had puzzled over that vision for a whole day afterwards while consuming his own large boxes of chocolates. 

[4] This, of course, had actually happened yesterday but Aziraphale had been terribly distracted and expected the cake to still be fresh, so of course it was.

[5] It was Aziraphale. Though it actually happened two months prior to the lockdown when, during a visit to Crowley's flat in which the demon introduced him to the Great British Bakeoff, the angel had drunkenly declared he was going to take up baking.

[6] Mostly

[7] An impressive feat for a demon who was mostly cold-blooded.

[8] He needed his hands free to fidget with his ring effectively.

[9] _“I knew I heard his voice!”_ an unhelpful part of his brain declared triumphantly.

[10] _All the terrible things I said to you…_ a guilty voice corrected him internally.

[11] _Finally, HIS Angel!!!_

[12] Crowley had limited “romantic” experience with humans, but he had it on good authority he was an excellent kisser. He could, after all, do very interesting things with his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!!! What did you think? This chapter and the coming epilogue were some of the hardest to write and I hope I did our boys justice in their love confession moment. If you don't like smut, there it is: fin, konets, the end. If you DO like smut, well then you've got one more chapter to wait for my friends! 😉 I will be posting it as a separate work in the series BUT I will post an update on this story too containing the link.   
> (Edit: even if you skip the smut, Chapter 19 added 11/20/20 is clean)
> 
> Even if you DON'T want to read the smut, I would love it if you visited the 18th Chapter page anyway and here's why. I have absolutely loved getting to chat with all of you who have been regularly commenting on this story. It has given me mental and emotional fuel through what's been a rough couple of months, and (even if you haven't commented before) I'd love to do a little chat/Q&A in the comments. If you want to talk about the story, writing processes, other ideas for future stories, head canons, James Bond, ANYTHING! (I'm a pretty open book) If you are interested I will also be sharing a clean list of head canons and ideas that come out in the epilogue for those that don't like smut and the final post-smut moment the boys share, and possibly a little extra surprise... so please do not unsubscribe! 
> 
> Thank you once again one and all for joining me on this journey! I hope I hear from you in the comments today and Tuesday. If you've enjoyed this please subscribe to my profile or find me on social media at [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921) and give this story a share or rec.
> 
> I know a few of you have seen it already, but if you're looking for a little more of weird sense of humor I also posted this [one-shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27109831) this week in recognition of Earth's Birthday on October 21. 
> 
> I love you all! Have a lovely weekend! ❤️


	18. Epilogue: For Snake Eyes Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link to the E-rated epilogue, Q&A, and what comes next...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for coming back for one last update on Double-O Omens! The smut can be found [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217423)! It picks up right where the last chapter left off. It is the longest single chapter of this story! It is incredibly soft, and incredibly sweet, and they talk a lot, but they do finally get down to business. 
> 
> If smut isn't your thing I have included a few of the clean highlights and the final little bit of sweetness in the body of this chapter.
> 
> Finally, please stay subscribed to this story! I had an idea a few weeks ago for one short, clean bonus scene I might write inspired by the last few lines of the story and Aziraphale and Crowley's future lockdown plans. Based off of what I've seen in your comments, such a scene might go over well! Please let me know in the comments if you would be interested in bonus chapters (some clean, some not)! I would likely not have them ready for at least several weeks and there would be no set posting schedule but there are two or three ideas out there at this point which I definitely think I could make work.
> 
> As I've mentioned before I've loved hearing from and getting to know some of you in the comments, so if you have any questions or comments for me whether they be about the story, head canons, me, or anything else really, please feel free to leave them here and I will reply ASAP!

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**Some fun things/head canons in this chapter:**

**-** Aziraphale is self-conscious about his appearance/weight, but Crowley absolutely loves his soft angel and has to reassure him.

-Crowley has a swathe of scales along the small of his back which Aziraphale thinks is adorable and reminds him of a tramp stamp (though he can't remember that term instead thinking of it as a Doxy Doodle, a Harlot Hieroglyph, or a Strumpet Sticker). 

-Aziraphale is ticklish.

-Crowley has sexual experience because he had to seduce humans for work, while Aziraphale is a virgin who only had one minor sexual encounter with a friend at his dance club and has kissed some humans.

-Crowley is surprised Aziraphale actually has a bedroom and is thrilled/shocked to see the angel has bought himself a TV set.

**Post Sex Scene:**

Crowley stretched up and placed a kiss on his lover’s forehead as he stroked a hand through the downy white feathers stretched out beneath him. 

Aziraphale’s smile somehow grew brighter, joined by the slight glow of his halo peeking through into the Earthly plane. “Jolly good,” he said, snapping his fingers to get rid of the mess covering them both and summon a blanket from the back room to drape over their naked bodies. “But for right now I rather think I would like to stay just like this.”

“Sounds good to me,” Crowley said, nuzzling his face into the angel’s neck and tucking his wings tight against his back. “Then maybe a little later I’ll help you set up that TV so we can have an excuse to do more of this.”

“Sounds wonderful, my Love,” Aziraphale agreed warmly, pulling Crowley into a tighter embrace. “Though I’m afraid my knowledge of cinema is a bit lacking…”

Crowley looked up at him with a smirk, an idea striking him. “How do you feel about watching some James Bond?”

“Sounds amenable,” Aziraphale answered with a happy wiggle. “As long as we’re doing it together.”

Crowley smiled. “I love you, Angel,” he said, eyes drifting shut.

“I love you too Crowley.” 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all once again for reading this and joining me on this ride. This story has occupied six full months for me and has given me something to focus on when things have been tough. I'm sad it's over but your comments and kudos have meant the world and I have loved every second of getting to share this story with you. You're the best. 
> 
> If you want to stay abreast of what else I've got cooking story wise please subscribe to me as an author or find me on social media at [Tumblr](https://supergeek21.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessiemarie921/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/JessieMarie921). Follows, recommendations, and story shares are ALWAYS Appreciated.


	19. Bonus Scene: No Time to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Crowley and Aziraphale's movie marathon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back! This was the first bonus scene that popped into my head while I was still finishing posting the main story and watched one of the weirder Bond films. It is mostly just fluff, and definitely will have more impact if you've seen the James Bond movies and know exactly how ridiculous they are, but I thought it would be fun to get Aziraphale's reaction. I've been busy so this is a short little scene, but I wanted to release it today as this was SUPPOSED to be the rescheduled release date for "No Time to Die" in the U.S. Please enjoy!

**_Ba-duh-da-dum da-da-duh:_** the orchestral theme music that was now so familiar to the angel blared up as the screen cut to black on the latest entry of their film marathon.

Crowley had returned to his flat a few days after his reunion with Aziraphale to bring his possessions over to the bookshop, including a plethora of potted plants which were now packing the backroom and upstairs flat[1] and a large box set of DVDs with a very high end player which was now attached to his new TV.[2] This was the twenty-fourth movie in their marathon[3] and while they had taken numerous breaks over the last three weeks for food, chatter, and **other activities** , they had spent a significant amount of that time curled up exactly as they were now: under a soft blanket with Crowley’s arm wrapped around Aziraphale possessively and the angel’s head resting on the demon’s shoulder, a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of wine sitting within easy reach. Aziraphale had even gone so far as to forgo his bowtie and dress shirt in exchange for a fluffy wool jumper, which Crowley had a tendency to snuggle into during the slower parts of the movies.

Crowley was once again grinning like a maniac as the credits rolled and turned enthusiastically to Aziraphale.

“So, Angel, what did you think?”

Aziraphale took in the childlike excitement on his boyfriend’s[4] face and smiled.

“Some of them were quite good,” he said. “I liked the one with the poker game, and the one with the gold robbery and the handsome Scottish fellow. The one with the invisible car and the sun laser though did feel like it was stretching things a bit too far… or that one in space? Honestly, how did the villain think he was going to recreate society with just those few pretty people on his space station? And how do you fake discovering a diamond mine?!”

Crowley’s expression momentarily dropped to a grimace. “Yeah, alright, they can’t all be winners, personally I thought you’d have more issue with the volcano lair or riding the cello case down the mountain…”

“I actually found the cello scene rather amusing,” the angel admitted with a shrug. “I was getting to the impossible logistics of the volcano, though! I was just trying to figure out what to say about the nuclear bomb at the circus first.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “They’ve made some questionable choices over the years, I’ll grant you that, but come on! The gadgets, the car chases, the crazy villain schemes, on the whole you have to admit it’s pretty cool!”

Aziraphale smirked, unable to resist Crowley’s obvious enthusiasm. Most of the movies hadn’t been his usual cup of tea, but he had to admit they had a certain charm; and watching them curled up with Crowley, reveling in the demon’s excitement at sharing something he obviously loved, had been a delight!

“Yes, I suppose I must,” he said. “It is always good fun to watch an evil scheme get thwarted after all, and the character is rather dashing. I can see why you might dream about being him… though I must say I don’t know if I care for how some of his love interests get treated.”

“Ngk! Yeah, well, I don’t dream that I’m Bond **exactly** ,” Crowley said, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “I mean, I’m all in for the destructive heroics and expensive accessories but outside a little flirtatious banter, I’m more of a one-love-interest type of spy.”

“Well, I would hope so,” Aziraphale said with a sarcastic sniff. “If you’re going to cast me as the damsel in distress, I should like to think you’re at least serious about me.”

“'Course I am, Angel. And you aren’t **always** in distress,” he added defensively. “I mean, you were when you happened to barge in, but I’ve dreamt of you saving me too! You’re usually much more like Halle Berry’s character than Ursula Andress’… only you don’t speak exclusively in quips and innuendoes so, y'know, even better. Brilliant actually!”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Aziraphale laughed before taking pause. “Wait a moment. Are you suggesting you’ve had more than one dream about being secret agents?”

Crowley made a sound that was mostly consonants and tripped over his own tongue. “I mean… not often,” he said. “Maybe once or twice in the 60’s or when a particularly good movie came out… but honestly, it’s been a while! I dream of all kinds of things, me. Can’t help it. Once had one about getting stuck in snake form and having to break out of a zoo! That was weird… And I **definitely** haven’t done it since the interruption incident. Haven’t actually slept more than a few hours here and there with how much time I’ve spent with you since then, come to think of it. Not that I’m complaining about that of course! Or the interruption really. Obviously, it all worked out just great and I’d much rather be doing this or the **_other things_** we do than sleeping… Just no time to dream, really.”

Aziraphale simply smiled as his demon continued to ramble ridiculously and a blush crept steadily up his sharp cheek bones.[5] Eventually he took mercy on the poor snake and leaned in to silence him with a gentle kiss.

“I didn’t say I minded it, My Dear,” he said sweetly as he pulled away. “I was just thinking that perhaps, if this is an idea you’re particularly fond of, we could possibly find a way to make that fantasy a reality.”

Aziraphale gave him a meaningful look and Crowley felt his jaw drop.

“Are you serious, Angel?” he asked, trying to hide exactly how intrigued he was by this suggestion.

“I can’t see a reason not to be,” Aziraphale answered matter-of-factly. “This is obviously something you love, I’d like to be a part of it…officially, that is. Plus, I must admit it does sound rather fun,” he added with an excited wiggle. “That is if you don’t mind sharing your fantasy with me. I would hate to intrude… again.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale in disbelief for a moment before his face split into a grin. A delighted, mischievous glint lit up his yellow eyes and Aziraphale felt the slight edge of nervousness that had started to creep up in his mind recede. 

“Not at all, Angel,” he said with barely restrained glee, before continuing in what was obviously a failed attempt at playing it cool. “I mean, if it’s something you’d like to do, I may have a few ideas I think you’d like.”

“I think I’d like to hear more about that,” the angel said with a smile before Crowley pulled him into a tight embrace.

* * *

[1] Which Aziraphale could have sworn he’d seen trembling on occasion when he entered the room, for reasons he couldn’t possibly imagine.

[2] It was working just fine despite not being plugged into the wall.

[3]Crowley had mentioned something about a few “non-canonical” entries, but Aziraphale wasn’t sure he was up for that. He was already having a bit of a hard enough time telling some of the official ones apart.

[4] He still wasn’t sure he liked that term, but they were experimenting with different titles. So far, they had already eliminated “beau” (too old fashioned), “mate” (too animalistic), and “significant other” (too vague). This was at least getting closer.

[5] A part of the angel Crowley would almost definitely have called a ‘bastard’ got a little thrill watching him get frazzled by his emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... obviously, I'm setting up a couple of ideas that some of you suggested during the comments. I currently have one full (smutty) idea and a second T-rated one that I'm still working the bugs out on. They will be shared as separate stories in the series, but almost definitely won't be written until after the first of the year because I'm crazy and signed up for multiple fic events at once during the holidays, BUT I wanted to assure you they are coming and use this to tee them up. Hope this scene was fun for you. Keep your eyes open for a few upcoming holiday fics from me and Happy Thanksgiving to anyone celebrating it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to give special thanks to my friend [Carmine Zuigiber](https://twitter.com/goodomenswar) for creating my cover art. I added the text on chapter 1. The original image can be seen [HERE](https://www.instagram.com/p/CFc9EtuFJ4b/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link). A world of thanks also goes to [GayDemonicDisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster) for beta-ing and brit-picking this story.


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